


My Life as a Prisoner, by Rufus Shinra

by Licoriceallsorts



Category: Before Crisis: Final Fantasy VII, Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Anorexia, Avalanche Mark I, Boarding School, Chocobos, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Depression, Drug Abuse, F/F, F/M, Financial shenanigans, Homophobia, Lots of OCs - Freeform, M/M, OC death., President Shinra is a homophobe, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-22
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-10-25 22:27:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 36
Words: 112,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20731685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Licoriceallsorts/pseuds/Licoriceallsorts
Summary: How exactly does the world’s most closely-guarded teenager escape the vigilance of the Turks to become the financial mastermind of a terrorist organisation bent on destroying his own father? Let alone find some privacy in which to explore his sexuality? Rufus’s reflections on the chain of events that have made him a prisoner of the Turks are interwoven with his interrogation by Tseng, who aims to uncover exactly what drove the young Vice-President to commit treason.I should probably be clear that the underage sex is between teens of the same age. Most of the triggery things for which I've given warning tags are mentioned in the fic rather than seen directly happening.  The big exception is the homophobia. President Shinra is dyed-in-the-wool. he doesn't physically abuse his son, but...This fic is complete and I'll be posting updates on a regular basis, thought not to a strict schedule because I'm too disorganised for that.





	1. Chapter 1

Name of prisoner: S-classified

ID No.: n/a

Category of prisoner: S*

Interrogators:

08:00-12:00 Rude S-DAR.01/M/56.S, Reno S-DAR.01/M/62.S,

12:00-16:00 Mink S-DAR.01/F/70.R, Cavour S-DAR.01/M/72.R

16:00-20:00 Knox S-DAR.01/M/48.R, Hunter S-DAR.01/F/78.R

20:00-01:15 Rude S-DAR.01/M/56.S, Reno S-DAR.01/M/62.S,

Supervisors: Tseng, S-DAR/M/64S*; Rosalind S-DAR.01/F/55.S

Date: 11/05/1993 - 12/05/1993

Duration: 08:00 - 01:15

_page 124_

**Reno: **How long have we been at this now? Fifteen fucking hours. I'm tired. I'm so fucking tired of this goddamn bullshit. Aren't you tired? You gotta be fried. Look at his red eyes, Rude. He can't hardly keep them open.

**Rude**: You wanna get some rest, kid? Stop stonewalling.

**Reno: **Look, you know and we know that this ain't going away. Your Old Man ain't gonna let it go till we get to the bottom of it. So he can, y'know, exonerate you.

**Prisoner S: **[_laughs]_

**Reno: **So, you wanna keep going, we can keep going. Or you can tell us who your contacts are in Avalanche.

**Prisoner S**: I'm not a snitch.

**Reno: **Huh. Okay. Musta stung, though, to have Fuhito turn on you like that, after all you did for him.

**Rude: **You need to choose your loyalties more wisely.

**Prisoner S**: [_yawns]_

**Rude: **Poor little sleepy-head.

**Reno**: Yeah, every bone in his body is gotta be crying out for some sleep. Wouldn't that be sweet, V.P.? Lie down on a nice soft bed, close your eyes, not a care in the world…. Sounds good, doesn't it? Sweet sweet oblivion. You must be longing to forget what a sucker you've been. Taken for a ride by a con artist like Fuhito.

**Rude: **Poor sap.

**Reno**: And we always thought he was so clever.

_page 125_

**Rude: **He's just a kid.

**Reno:** So tell us, what d'you think Fuhito did with all your money? Oh, yeah, sorry - I mean your ma's money, don't I? Because that's where it came from. Isn't it? You used the money she left you. Your Palmer inheritance. You wanna know something? At first Tseng was kinda impressed you figured out how to launder that gil all on your own. That was before we found out who the real brains in the operations were.

**Rude: **We know about Pia and Mercedes Gandara.

**Prisoner S**: That must be a new development. I was under the distinct impression your Commander - oh wait, I mean your former commander, don't I? - had kept that information from you.

**Reno: **The records have been unsealed, you little shit.

**Prisoner S: **Well, since you now know about Pia Gandara, I don't see what more there is I can tell you. She was my contact. My conduit, if you like. She could have told you much more than I can. If only Veld hadn't been in such a hurry to silence them, you would have been able to question them now. What a shame.

**Reno**: I was asking you what you think Fuhito did with all those millions you gave him. Your ma's money. You think he spent it all on weapons? Recruits? Fucking cloning tanks for his sick shit? Let me tell you something. Charlie did some calculations when he was down in Wutai. He wanted to know how Avalanche was spending your money. Now, you gotta remember it wasn't just your money Fuhito was spending. A lot of the gil he got his hands on in Wutai was legit aid money, investment capital from the Shinra Regeneration Fund. Godo must be kicking his own dumb ass thinking of all that gil down the the drain.

**Rude**: He could have built hospitals.

**Reno**: Does it make you feel better knowing you aren't the only one who got played, V.P.?

**Rude: **Roads. Bridges. Schools.

**Reno: **Charlie reckons Fuhito's got to have thirty million, minimum, stashed away somewhere. You got any idea where that might be? Was he making any investments you know about? Maybe through that company you set up? Did he buy any property? Gold? Art? Rude, remember that painting that sold for six million last month? Remind me again, who was the buyer?

**Rude: **Anonymous.

**Reno: **That's a line of inquiry we might pursue. Probably it'll turn out not to be Fuhito. But it could be; that's my point. He's got enough to retire and live in luxury the rest of his days. Maybe we'll have to call him the one that got away. Thirty million, man. With that kind of gil you could get yourself your own private army. Real soldiers this time. Not fucking amateur eco-warrior trust fund babies. Rude, if you were Fuhito, what would you do with your private army?

**Rude: **Clean up my past.

**Reno: **Get rid of anyone who knew too much?

**Prisoner S: **With Tseng and his team here to protect me, I have nothing to fear.

[_At this juncture the prisoner appeared to be falling asleep. Rude slammed the table with his fists.]_

**Rude: **Wake up.

**Reno**: V.P., you know how your ma died when you were born, right?

**Prisoner S: **It's not something I'm allowed to forget.

_page 126_

**Reno**: Yeah, she died, and that sucks, not gonna deny it, but still. She didn't leave you empty-handed. Three hundred and forty million gil, and that was just her personal fortune. Plus the Patricia Shinra Charitable Trust. What kind of charities did the late Mrs Shinra support, Rude?

**Rude: **Health clinics. Mobile libraries. Scholarships.

**Reno**: She was a great lady.

**Prisoner S: **Don't speak of her as if you knew her. You never knew her.

**Reno: **Her reputation lives on, though, right? She left a son behind to keep the torch burning and all. In her will she told your old man to give you control of her fortune when you were sixteen years old. Sixteen years old. That's a pretty big responsibility for someone so young.

**Rude**: She must have had a lot of faith in her baby.

**Reno: **So,you think your ma would be proud to see what you did with her money? Funding terrorists. You call that honouring her name?

**Prisoner S: **Shut up.

**Reno: **You were her only child. She sacrificed her life so you could live. What do you think she'd say to you if she could see you now?

**Prisoner S: **Fuck you, Reno.

**Rude: **I don't think she'd say that.

**Reno**: I heard it was a real love match. The Chief says your old man worshipped the ground she walked on. A real happy marriage. You don't see many of them. Kinda weird to think of the Old Man being like that, isn't it? Just a regular happily married man. And then you came along -

**Prisoner S: **Shut up.

**Reno: **I mean, now that I think about it, it makes sense you'd want to kill him too. Complete the set.

[_At this juncture Prisoner S got to his feet, picked up his chair and threw it at the interrogators. Neither sustained any injuries.]_

**Rude: **Looks like you hit a nerve there, partner.

**Reno: **You want us to put the cuffs back on?

**Prisoner S: **I want to see Tseng. Now.

**Reno: **Tseng's got better things to do. I wouldn't count on seeing him any time soon.

**Prisoner S: **You're full of shit, Reno. I know exactly where he is. That's a two-way mirror, he's standing right there on the other side, watching me. I know you're there, Tseng.

**Rude**: I'm hungry. Let's go eat, partner.

**Reno: **What about him?

**Rude: **He's not going anywhere.

**Reno: **That's true. He doesn't know anything, anyway.

**Rude: **He probably never met Fuhito before yesterday.

**Reno**: You reckon? But no, Rude, that can't be right. Fuhito knew him. He called him by name.

**Rude: **Everyone knows what Rufus Shinra looks like.

**Reno: **You got a good point there, partner. Man, this kid's self-delusion is off the charts. The Old Man gifts his baby boy a seat on the board, and 

_page 127_

suddenly the kid believes he's king of the world. He thinks helping a terrorist clean out his trust fund makes him a criminal mastermind. I almost feel sorry for the chump.

**Prisoner S: **I have met him. More than once.

**Rude: **That's kinda hard to believe.

**Prisoner S: **_He_ was the one who wanted to meet _me_.

**Reno: **Sure, V.P., if you say so. C'mon, Rude, let's go to Ho-Chu's. I could murder a curry. This'll keep.

**Prisoner S: **I set it up. I organised a meeting with Fuhito right under your noses and you never suspected a thing.

**Rude: **Sure you did. We believe you, don't we, Reno?

**Prisoner S: **Two years ago. At the Moonlily Ball. That was the first time we met.

**Reno: **The Moonlily Ball? In Icicle Inn?

**Prisoner S: **The Moonlily Ball, 1991. Check out the guest list. Will that do for starters, Tseng? Go follow that clue and see where it leads you. If you're the Turks you think you are, it shouldn't take you long. Let me know when you've got it. I'll be right here waiting. That's all I have to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-obligatory author's note
> 
> This fic was written to fill a major gap in “Death is Part of the Process” and features many of the same characters and OCs. I used the same names for the BC Turks here as in DIPOTP. Other OCs are drawn from my backlist and occasionally borrowed (with permission) from my fellow Turkfic writers’ stories. Some OCs are new to this fic. After I post chapter 4 I’ll add a crib sheet that lists all the characters, just in case anyone feels the need. 
> 
> After I finished DIPOTP I realised I'd never addressed one of the biggest question in the story, and maybe the whole Compilation: how exactly did Rufus do it? He's monitored practically 24/7, so how did he contrive to make contact with Avalanche in the first place? And how was able to "secretly" transfer sums of money so vast they would have rung any bank manager's alarm bells? BC didn't trouble itself with realism, but I was intrigued. If their world were real, how exactly might a teenage boy manage to do what Rufus did? This fic is just one possible suggestion of how it might have happened.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been three days. Surely they must have found it by now. The little thing they’re looking for. 

It’ll be in one of the files. Hundreds, maybe thousands of files, maybe one for each day of my life. Six thousand, seven hundred and fifty-two lever arch files stuffed with photographs and observation notes and weight charts and vaccination records and a copy of every test I ever took at school; all my report cards; the security clearance reports on my friends and their families and my teachers; on anyone who touched my life in any way. And in the twelfth file of the days of my life, a copy of my mother’s death certificate. 

They keep my files in a locked room inside another locked room where they keep all their other files. And if anything were to happen to this building - oh, let’s say terrorists blew it up, all seventy floors of it - nothing would be lost from their meticulously organised record of my dull, dull life because it’s all stored on disks as well. Two sets of disks, kept at separate locations. What a treasure trove for future historians. 

I don’t care. Let them have that dull dull life. Nothing of any importance is in those files, nothing that really matters. If Tseng wants to find what he’s looking for - the reason why I did it - he’ll have to look inside himself. Use his imagination. He’ll have to spend some time thinking about me. 

He almost killed me last week. When he brought me home from Corel, after the reactor exploded; when he found out I’d told Dad about Veld and Veld’s daughter, he took off his belt and he beat me, in exactly the same way, I imagine, that Veld used to beat him. He probably would have gone all the way and killed me if Reno hadn’t stepped in. Veld trained him to be my shield and protector but I broke through that wall, I got through it and touched something Veld taught him to seal away. So, now he knows. He knows he could kill me. 

He won’t, of course. He’ll be on his guard from now on. It only happened because he didn’t know it could. 

Tseng is a man who doesn’t normally let his emotions get the better of him. Last week, with me, he lost control. That came as a surprise to him. To me too, if I’m honest. A not-entirely-unpleasant surprise, for me at any rate. I’m sorry they insisted on curing me. Even now I can feel a sort of lingering afterglow, an achy tightness, in my neck and shoulders. Souvenir of pain. Rude said I’ll be scarred for life. That’s something, I suppose. 

The little thing they’re looking for is an invitation card. On the night of the Moonlily Ball, the guests’ invitation cards are collected at the door, their names checked against a list before they pass through security. A thousand invitation cards would fill quite a few file boxes. The one they’re looking for, the one that’s been touched by Fuhito’s hand, or, if not actually touched by him, been close to him, does not have his name on it. But even so, finding it shouldn’t be  _ this _ difficult. 

How did I get my hands on an invitation, when Wendy guards them with her life? I saw an opportunity and I took it. Dad would have been so proud of me. He’s always telling me a successful entrepreneur is a man who knows how to seize the moment. 

After he appointed me Vice-President, he gave me an office on his Secretariat’s floor, literally directly below his desk, metaphorically sitting on me. Before becoming my office, it had served as a meeting room. It’s beautifully furnished, I’ll give it that. Fabulous views, if you like views of Midgar. I was sitting with my feet up on my desk playing  _ Moon Ball Magic _ on my PHS, when through my open door I saw one of the post-room boys carrying the stationer’s boxes into Wendy’s office, and the thought came into my head,  _ if you could get your hands on one of those cards, it might be just what you need _ .

About a quarter of an hour later, Wendy came out of her office and headed for the stairs to Dad’s floor. She smiled at me as she passed by. 

One of the advantages of not being taken seriously is that no one is really interested in what you do. They all have their own work to get on with, and as long as you’re not making a nuisance of yourself, they won’t bother themselves with you. None of the secretaries in the typing pool asked me why I was going into Wendy’s office. I wasn’t answerable to them. I’ve always gone where I like in the building, and our employees are obliged to pretend they’re glad to see me. Hojo’s floors are the exception: Dad won’t let me set foot there. And the Turks’ floor. Veld makes me welcome -  _ made _ me welcome - but Tseng usually finds some excuse to get rid of me. I think he feels I shouldn’t be there for the same reason my old man thinks I shouldn’t visit the labs. They’re afraid of  _ contagion _ . 

And now I’m Tseng’s permanent guest. Oh the irony.

I took one of the invitation cards from the box on Wendy’s desk. Beautiful cards, works of art, different designs every year. That year they were a heavy cream vellum, embossed with a silver pattern of moons and lilies, watermarked with the company logo and finely edged in gold. Before leaving her office I also took a hole punch, on the off chance that one of the secretaries quizzed me on the way out. They didn’t. They probably didn’t even mention to Wendy that I had been in her office. Later, when I went to return the hole punch (because I had one of my own), I heard her on the phone, complaining to the stationers that the card count was one short. It never occurred to her that the card had been stolen. 

With the blank card safely in my possession, I waited until Wendy had sent the card boxes and a print-out of the guest list down to the calligrapher, and then I hacked into her work account (something I’d taught myself to do when I was in primary school) and made the necessary alteration to the master guest list. Then I went to my apartment, took a romantic novel down from the shelf, glued the card between two of its pages, and put it back on the shelf.

A week later, Dad and I went to the Gandara’s house for dinner. On the way, in the limo, Dad asked me what that thing was sticking out of my coat pocket. I said I was lending Mercedes a book. He asked to see it. He turned it over in his big fat hands, reading the front and back covers, and declared, “Looks like a load of sentimental drivel. Do you like this kind of thing, son?” in a tone which let me know he would be disappointed but not terribly surprised if I did. 

I said I hadn’t read it. I told him Allegra Fortescue had given me the book, which was a lie but not one he’d ever discover. My last nanny had left the book behind when she was dismissed. I’d rescued it and put it on my shelf. 

Dad kept hold of the book until we arrived at the party, and when he saw Mercedes he beckoned her over and kissed her on both cheeks like an uncle. I don’t know how she kept her smile on. Mercedes was the pretty one; Pia was the clever one. Dad must have given Veld the order to -

There’s no point in going over that. What’s done is done.

Pia might have been the academic one, but Mercedes had her wits about her. When Dad put the novel into her hand and said, “Here’s the book my boy promised you,” she only blinked, and said, “That’s wonderful. I’ve been longing to read this for ages.”

“You be careful, young lady. Too much reading will spoil those pretty eyes. Men never make passes at girls who wear glasses, eh? Eh?”

Mrs Gandara rescued us, by which I mean she claimed Dad and steered him away from the children; she wanted to show him off to her other guests. Mercedes leaned forward to kiss my cheek - a peremptory peck, since I was out of favour - and whispered in my ear, “Rufe, what the fuck?”

I put my lips against her own ear and whispered back, “Give it to Pia. There’s something in it for our mutual friend. She’ll know what to do with it.”

To anyone watching us, we must have looked like two teenagers who were keen on each other. Mrs Gandara must have been delighted. She was very ambitious for her daughters. And yet she barely knew them. Mercedes and Pia were strangers to their parents, as I am to mine. It’s not an unusual situation among my circle of friends. 

Oh, my door’s opening. Is it dinner-time? It must be: here’s Rosalind with my tray. She’s never come in before. Presumably the mere sight of me disgusts and enrages her. She used to be engaged to one of Hojo’s scientists. Dr Philip Harper, his name was. He was killed when Avalanche raided our labs this time last year. She blames me, which is only natural. I  _ am _ to blame.

She lets the metal tray drop onto the table,  _ clang _ , a painful sound. 

“Tseng ordered me not to come in. I’ve never disobeyed an order in my life. But since I’m here - “

Her fist is moving fast. I’m not ducking. Let’s do this.

Oh, ow, fuck. Bloody hell, she punched me right out of my chair. My chair’s fallen onto me. My ear’s ringing. Half my head’s on fire. 

“Do you feel better now?” I want her to get her money’s worth.

She’s flexing her fist. “Actually, yes.”

“Any time.” I mean it. One punch won’t be enough, surely. 

Oh, no, is she getting a heal materia out? Don’t do that, Roz. You have to let me feel it. This damn Turk is so bloody conscientious. She’s been my bodyguard and my firearms instructor since I was eight years old.

She’s setting my chair upright. She won’t go so far as to offer me a hand, though. I can’t get up right now, Roz; my head is full of pins and needles thanks to the cure you cast. 

“Eat that.” She’s pointing at my meal tray. “Tseng said you have to eat.”

.

I haven’t eaten it. It’s the first thing he noticed when he came in. “I hope you’re not planning a hunger strike, Rufus.”

“Why?” I still can’t quite believe he’s come to interrogate me himself. Oh frabjous day! 

“Starving yourself is not easy. Hunger strikers usually give up after a few days. Please don’t feel you need to prove your resolve to us. We don’t want to have to force feed you.”

Is he sure about that? I think some of his subordinates would enjoy it immensely.

He sits down on the other metal folding chair, pushes the tray aside, and lays before my eyes a beautiful cream vellum, silver embossed, gold-rimmed invitation card. The name on the card is written in purple ink. “Can you tell me about this?”

I’m looking straight into his eyes. “Yes.”

He looks straight back into mine. My heart is pounding so loudly I can count every beat: two, three, four, five - 

“What can you tell me about this card?”

“Ah. I’m sorry. I didn’t understand the question. That’s the Moonlily Ball invitation I gave to Pia via her sister Mercedes.”

“When you gave it to her, it was blank.”

“Is that another question?”

“Who wrote the card for her?”

Let me take a closer look.  _ Pia Gandara and Guest. _ Perfect lettering. “It’s a very good forgery, isn’t it? I doubt Pia could have done this. Mercedes, perhaps. Art was always her strongest subject. But it looks like the work of a trained calligrapher.”

“Who, Rufus?”

“I don’t know, Tseng. You’d have to ask Pia. Oh, wait, you can’t, can you? Oops.”

He plucks the card from my fingers and slides it back into his top pocket. “Fuhito was Pia Gandara’s guest, wasn’t he?”

“You know the answer to that. You must have checked the security footage before you came here. You saw him.”

“The woman in the yellow dress with the long blond hair?”

“Fuhito does love a disguise.” 

“Yes, I’m sure it was very amusing for all three of you. You didn’t talk together for very long. What did he say to you?”

“That he needed money.”

“And you said…?”

“I told him I wanted my father dead, and if they would undertake to do it, I’d help them. With money and with information.”

“That’s all?”  
Isn’t that enough? What more does he want? “Well, naturally, Fuhito did ask me why I wanted the old man dead.”

“And what did you tell him?”

He’s leaning in, all ears. This is what he really wants to know. Not how I did it.  _ Why _ I did it. 

“I told him I was tired of waiting for my turn, and that I thought I could make a better job of running the company than my old man. Which is true, by the way.”

He knows it’s true - anyone who’s had to sit through just one of our board meetings would know it’s true - but right now, that’s not his focus. I’ve given him a reason for why I did it, and now he’s going to explain to me why I was wrong. Show me the error of my ways. Help me grow and mature as a person. It’s what Veld would want him to. So much more constructive than flaying the skin off my shoulders with a belt buckle. And yet, somehow, so much less honest. 

He’s opening his mouth. Here he goes:

“Fuhito’s goal is to destroy Shinra entirely. He’s not aiming for a management reshuffle.”

“I know that. He was perfectly upfront about it.”

“And you didn’t foresee any problems?” He folds his arms. “All right. Let’s do a hypothetical. Let’s suppose your scheme has succeeded. Avalanche has assassinated your father, and you are now President. Fuhito remains determined to destroy what is now your company. How do you propose we deal with your ex-allies?”

“I’d use my inside knowledge to destroy them first. We can disregard Shears and Elfe. Fuhito’s the lynchpin. Remove him, and Avalanche would collapse. I’d find a way to lure him to a meeting and then kill him. He can’t resist an opportunity to outsmart me. The riskier, the better, so that’s the bait I’d use. He loves disguises, so some big event would be perfect, something formal he can dress up for. Dad’s funeral, for instance. Fuhito definitely wouldn’t want to miss that.”

Tseng’s not amused. “The individual survivors of a collapsed and fragmented Avalanche would still be capable of incriminating you. That’s the real danger.”

“Once we’d cut off the head, you could dispose of the body. It’s what you do best. And our PR department are experts in neutralising rumours. Dad’s given them plenty of practise. If we could sweep the disaster at Nibelheim under the carpet, covering up my involvement with Avalanche should be a piece of cake.”

Tseng’s face! Like a stone! Completely stumped for a reply!

No, wait, here he goes. “And Fuhito - did he know you planned to turn on him as soon as you’d obtained your objective?”

“Well, naturally I didn’t spell it out for him. But he’s not stupid. There was no other possible endgame.”

“And yet he was willing to take orders from you.”

“Was he? The last time I looked, my old man was still alive, so I think you can draw your own conclusions. I know it must pain you to hear this, Tseng, but your Commander was stretching the truth just a teensy bit when he told you I was the one controlling Avalanche. I never controlled them. We were more like… business partners.”

“You have thrown away a fortune, with nothing to show for it.”

Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious. Reno and Rude have already been at pains to point this out to me. 

I wish they would stop harping on about the money. What use is money anyway if you don’t spend it on the things you want? What Tseng fails to understand - what they all fail to understand - is that I don’t need my trust fund. I’m not like Lazard. I can stand on my own two feet. My great-grandfather Rufus transformed his brush and broom business into a multi-million gil weapons company; my grandfather Augustus and my dad build that weapons company into what Shinra is today, and in that respect at least (but in no other, I hope), I am my father’s son. If I walked out of this building tomorrow with nothing but the clothes I stood up in, in ten years I could build a business to rival my Dad’s.  _ If _ I were allowed a free hand - which, of course, would never happen. The point is, that money’s not my life raft. I wouldn’t drown without it. I’m more than capable of making my own way in the world on my wits and talents alone. Not that I’ll ever be set free to prove it. 

Dad’s sixty-six. He’s had his innings. He needs to get out of the way. Die, or retire; either would do. If Dad were a private person, I could get a doctor in, get a diagnosis, get power of attorney and shuffle him off to a nursing home where he could play golf all day long and be perfectly happy. The way things are, though, I first need to wrest control of the board away from him. And I was making good progress, too, until fucking Fuhito decided to blow up the Corel Reactor. Now, who knows how long Dad will keep me a prisoner. Every day I’m stuck in here is another step backwards. 

“Rufus?”

“Sorry. I was thinking.”

“One more thing about this invitation. Why didn’t you simply put Pia Gandara on the official guest-list?”

“She was on the list. But her card only said ‘Pia Gandara _ ’ _ . I needed it to say ‘Pia Gandara and guest _ ’.” _

“You could have asked if she could bring a guest.”

“And draw unnecessary attention to her? I don’t think that would have been a good idea.”

“Someone could easily have noticed the discrepancy.”  
“If I were afraid of taking risks I wouldn’t have started down this road in the first place.”

Tseng steeples his fingers and presses them to his lips, looking at me. When he takes this pose, it means he’s got a thought in his head he’s not sure he should utter - which makes me all the more eager to hear it. “Spit it out, Tseng.”

“Despite your plausible rationale, I suspect you enjoyed the subterfuge. Making a simple request would have been too straightforward for you.”

“How well you know me.” 

I said that sarcastically, meaning to imply that his view of me is a bit too cynical to be wholly accurate. But the thing is, he’s right. And it’s true, he does know me _ .  _

“Do I?” he says. “I wonder…”

And I know him. I know his tones. That note of disappointed reproach:  _ I expected so much more from you, Rufus, but maybe I’ve been wrong all this time… _

He’s looking at his watch. Wait - he’s standing up. Why? He’s not leaving already, is he? He just got here.

“I’m running late. I have to go. We’ll carry on with this tomorrow, Rufus.”

But when is tomorrow? I have no windows, no clock, no light, no sun. 

He’s picking up my tray. “I’m going to get someone to re-heat this, and then you’re going to eat it.”

“Yes, nanny.”

He’s turning, he’s going. Oh wait, wait, there’s something I have to ask him: “Tseng - “

He turns back. “Yes?”

“Where’s Dark Nation?”

“She’s been sent to your aunt’s farm.”

Aunt Pansy’s farm? All right, that’s good. That’s the best place for her. Dark Nation knows Aunt Pansy. She’ll be happy there; as happy as she can be without me. Aunt Pansy will take good care of my girl.

He’s starting to leave again. “Tseng, wait. I wanted to ask you - “ 

One of the Turks fell into the mako when the Corel reactor exploded and I haven’t seen her since. It’s been a week. “Aviva - how is she?”

“She’s in a coma. The doctors don’t know when she’ll come round. She may never regain consciousness.”

“I’m sorry - “ 

He cuts me off with a look. And rightly so.  _ Sorry _ is a cheap, paltry, lazy word. Totally inadequate. I should know better. 

“Nobody wants to hear how sorry you are, Rufus.”

“I understand that. And I know you won’t believe me, but I have to say it anyway. I never intended for this to happen.”

“Maybe so.” He’s turning away as he speaks. “But it did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wendy is Wendy Pretorius, President Shinra's executive PA. She's an older woman, and Rufus has known her all his life.
> 
> Roz/Rosalind is BC Turk Gun, Elena's sister.
> 
> Aunt Pansy is the sister of Palmer (Uncle Roland in this fic); they were cousins of Rufus's mother. Aunt Pansy trains racing chocobos.
> 
> Mercedes and Pia Gandara: sisters; Mercedes is the same age as Rufus.


	3. Chapter 3

I told Tseng a lie earlier. Fuhito did not ask me why I wanted Dad dead. Not at the Moonlily Ball, nor on either of the other two occasions when we met face to face. He couldn’t have cared less. After one look at me, he believed he understood me. He’d dealt with my kind before, or what he assumed was my kind: bored aimless rich kids neglected by their parents, searching for a guru to inject some meaning into their lives. I didn’t interest him. My money did.

After I gave the invitation card to Mercedes, I was living on tenterhooks. Would he accept? Would he come? I allowed myself just one phone call to Pia. “Well? Well? Has he said anything?”

“He might come. He might not. He won’t commit.”

“If he wants my money, he’ll come.”

“It’s a huge risk.”

“Tell him I personally guarantee his safety.”

He had to come. He _had_ to. Five minutes of his time was all I needed. What would I say to him? How could I persuade him? I must have drafted a thousand different speeches in my mind. 

Dad noticed something was up. “You’re very quiet these days, son. Got your mind on the Ball? Don’t tell me - there’s a special somebody, eh, eh? You young dog. I’ll have to keep my eye on you.”

His awful, leering, conspiratorial wink was all the warning I needed. I redoubled my efforts to conceal my feelings.

My mother was the one who founded the Moonlily Ball as a fundraiser for her various charities. Dad has keep it going in her memory. That year the ball was held at Icicle Inn in a series of well-heated inflatable domes - two with actual log-burning fireplaces - amply furnished with sofas, floral arrangements, chandeliers, bars, and dance floors. Outside, under the stars, artists had created an ice sculpture garden that nobody visited because they were wearing ball gowns and the temperature was fifteen below. Most of them arrived by private plane or helicopter and would leave the same way. Dad and I always fly separately. That way, if one of us goes down, the other will live to make our enemies rue the day.

I did my duty, circulating among our guests, shaking hands, shaking more hands, kissing cheeks, smiling until my face hurt, exchanging inane pleasantries with various boring people, occasionally enjoying a brief catch-up with an old school friend, and putting my name on girls’ dance cards. Never the same girl twice. Spread the jam right across the toast, as nanny used to say. I didn’t even have the pleasure of watching Tseng glide through the crowds like a… Like a snake. Yes. Streamlined, fluid, alert, on the hunt. Veld had sent him off on some mission to the middle of nowhere.

I moved with the flow of the evening and waited for the current to bring Pia and her guest to me, which it did, eventually, after the silent auction and the acrobats and the buffet supper, but before the dancing had begun. When I saw Pia’s companion was a woman, disappointment churned so violently in my gut I was afraid I might make a spectacle of myself. _He’s decided not to come - They don’t trust me - They suspect a trap - They want nothing to do with me… _

Pia seized my hand, pulled me close, kissed my cheek and whispered, “This is our friend,” then drew back and said, “Vice-President, allow me to introduce my cousin from Forland, Gloria Pickering.”

What an insanely wild, phenomenally arrogant thing that was to do, waltzing into the dragon’s lair in the full glare of high society, wearing stiletto heels and a yellow ball gown, to shake my hand right under the eyes of our Turks. I am sure that when Pia suggested it to him, he jumped at the chance. He would have found the prospect irresistible.

Once I knew his true identity, I could see the blond hair was a wig. It didn’t match his dark eyes. He - she - took my hand. His - her - hand was neither large nor small, finely manicured, with short red lacquered nails. Strong grip. They - he - she - was on the tall side for a woman, though not exceptionally so. A little shorter than me, and I wasn’t as tall then as I am now. I’d only just turned sixteen.

He _could_ be a woman. For real. Funny that it’s only now I think of this. Everyone refers to Fuhito as ‘he’, Pia always called him ‘he’, but he could easily have been a woman all along, and perhaps that night was the only time he showed me his, her true self. A woman masquerading as a man. A mannish woman; a womanly man. Or neither. Or both. Should I mention it to Tseng? _Bold of you to assume he’s a man?_

Poor Tseng, he’s trying so hard; I don’t want to confuddle him. Fuhito’s gender isn’t important. Although… If they really do believe he’s living the high life under an alias somewhere, they ought to be investigating women as well as men. Perhaps I will tell him. At some point. One thing at a time.

Fuhito said, “I hear you’ve been asking to meet me.”

He has a remarkably mellifluous voice. Seductive. Hypnotic. It’s his greatest weapon. You could describe it as a light baritone or a low alto, equally a man’s voice or a woman’s voice, warm and easy on the ear.

I said, “I hear you’re looking for an investor in your enterprise.”

He said, “Yes. It’s a growing concern, I’m proud to say. We need an injection of capital. But I’m afraid my business might prove hostile to your own. We’re not overly fond of mako power.”

I said, “I can assure you it wouldn’t hurt my interests to diversify. I have sufficient funds at my disposal.”

Lowering his voice, he asked, “Untraceable?”

I said, “Allow me to coordinate an initial small investment with Pia, and we’ll see how it goes.”

He said, “What return on your investment are you looking for, Rufus Shinra?”

And I leaned forward and said for his ear alone, “I want my father dead.”

Fuhito looked me up and down. He didn’t try to hide his contempt. I found that reassuring. I felt he was being honest with me.

He said, “You’re a child.”

I said, “That’s the deal I’m offering. If you’re interested, you know how to contact me. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Miss Pickering. May I get you both a glass of champagne?”

I pushed off through the crowds pretending to search for a waiter, and when I returned with the champagne, they were gone, as I’d known they would be.

Tseng and Reno seem to think I don’t understand that Fuhito was using me. Do they realise how insulting that is? Of course I understand. The fact that we were mutually using each other was understood between us right from the beginning. He thought I was a child. I thought he was a tool.


	4. Chapter 4

Could this bed _be_ any more uncomfortable? I wish they’d give me some curtains for that two-way mirror. Not knowing who’s watching me from the other side – if anyone - is beginning to do my head in. Is that intentional? Possibly. They’ve made me an exhibit in a zoo -

My door’s opening. Tseng! Quick, get up - go sit at the table. Look willing.

He’s not taking the other chair. Isn’t he going to sit down?

“I can’t stay long, Rufus.”

“Sit anyway.”

He won’t sit. He seems a little stressed. “I need your help. I’m coming under pressure to interrogate your friends.”

No need to ask who is putting the pressure on. “Don’t do that.”

“I don’t want to do it. Apart from anything else, it would cause a stir, which would draw attention to your absence. We don’t want people to start asking questions. And I don’t believe your friends could tell us anything useful. Am I right?”

“All the ones who might have been some use to you are gone.”

“Yes, just about everybody who’s ever got close to Fuhito is either dead, or dying, or in prison.” He’s reaching into his jacket, producing a sheet of paper, unfolding it to show me a typed list of names, maybe twenty in all. “These are the ones from your social circle that we know were involved with Avalanche. The names in bold are confirmed dead. The rest are missing. We presume they’re dead. Or - One way or another, they’re not coming back. Nobody’s child has ever come back after running away to join Avalanche.”

None of the names on the list are kids I knew well. Some I only knew by sight. Three of them used to go to my school. Dropping out to become an eco-warrior was a craze for a while. The lucky ones didn’t get as far as Avalanche.

He says, “Is anyone missing? Anyone we don’t know about?”

“I don’t see Mercedes’ name here.”

“She was the one who recruited you, wasn’t she? That’s what she told Charlie.”

“Yes.”

“What about your other friends? They weren’t involved in any way?”

“It wasn’t their scene.”

“You didn’t take any of them into your confidence? Not even Alex?“

“Especially not Alex.” 

Why are we having this conversation? Tseng can’t possibly think I would have deliberately incriminated Alex or any of my friends in my treason. I knew from the start that whatever happened, Dad wouldn’t hurt me, but he’s already proven that he has no qualms about exacting the ultimate price from my friends.

I don’t like the way Tseng is looming over me. I’m going to stand up too.

He says, “So none of your friends had any idea you were conspiring with Avalanche?”

“That’s correct. I acted alone. Well, Mercedes and I, we acted together. No one else was involved.”

“Hughie Babbington?”

Did he seriously just ask me if _Hughie_ was part of a conspiracy against Shinra? “Come on, Tseng.”

“Your father suspects everyone. He wants me to round them all up and bring them in. If you have any way of proving that you and Mercedes Gandara acted alone, you need to share it with me now.”

Hold on. Hold on. Is this a ploy? _Tell us what you know or we’ll break your friends’ kneecaps_? Phrased much more decorously, of course, but still - that’s what this boils down, isn’t it? He’s threatening me. My god, Tseng is threatening me.

He wouldn’t actually do it. Dad would never make him do it. They wouldn’t dare. Once they start questioning my friends, this whole elaborate cover they’ve so carefully constructed for me will blow right open like the tissue of lies it is, and that is absolutely the last thing Dad wants to see happen. No, he’s bluffing. Let’s call him on it.

“You don’t need to bring them in, Tseng. Go call on them at home. They’d be pleased to see you. They think of the Turks as old friends, you know. Or how about this? Don’t go yourself. Send Rude, he’s the girls’ favourite. They’d love to spend some time chatting with him. Or send Skeeter. Everybody loves Skeeter! You’ll have to fabricate some excuse, but that shouldn’t prove too difficult. Wait, I know - tell them Dad’s planning a big party for my nineteenth birthday and he’s sent you out to collect all their favourite stories about me. Yes, that should work. There you go, problem solved.”

He’s annoyed. I’ve succeeded in annoying him. Really, Tseng, you’ll have to do better than this.

I return the list to him. He puts it back in his pocket.

He says, “It’s very convenient to pin it all on a dead girl, isn’t it?”

“You make it sound as if I’m blaming her. Mercedes wasn’t responsible for the choices I made. I am.”

This isn’t what he wants to hear. Although, in another way, it’s exactly what he wants to hear. He and Veld have worked hard to mould me into the kind of man who takes responsibility for his actions. But on the other hand, he’s being paid to find some way to exonerate me, even though he thinks I fully deserve everything that’s happened to me. He knows I acted alone. In his heart, he knows. Because he knows me.

He says, “How did it happen, Rufus?”

“You mean, how did I get involved with Avalanche in the first place?”

“What were you thinking? You’re too clever not to have realised from the start what you were getting yourself mixed up in. And how small your chances of success were. Mercedes Gandara may have led you a little way down the path, but at some point you must have made the conscious decision to continue. Why?”

That’s a big question. _The_ big question. He thinks he knows why I wanted Dad dead. But why I chose to use Avalanche as the means to my end, and what were the steps that led me on until there was no turning back - these are the things he wants to understand, and not just because Dad is breathing down his neck demanding answers. He wants to know for his own sake.

The other big question - my own personal big question - is this: How much do I want him to know? There are puzzles beneath puzzles here. Secrets wrapped inside enigmas. I don’t necessarily want him to solve them all.

“I suppose I _could_ tell you. But that would be rather boring for both of us. Wouldn’t you prefer to figure it out for yourself? I’m sure can you find the answer if you put some thought into it. Everything you need is in your files. Have a look through them. Consider the evidence. Formulate a hypothesis. Come back and run it past me. If you’re right, I’ll tell you.”

Now, how will he reply?

Oh shit, his PHS is buzzing. What appalling timing. He’s flipping it open, checking the message. “I’m running behind schedule.” He almost sounds as if he’s really sorry to have to leave. Almost. “I must go. I’ll be back later.” He’s already heading for the door.

“Leave my friends alone. They can’t tell you anything.”

The door shuts behind him.

He’ll be back later. _Later_. Such an elastic term. It could mean ‘in an hour’. It could mean ‘tomorrow’. It could mean ‘next week’.

I’ll sit here and wait, then, shall I? Alone with my thoughts once again.

* * *

My friends._ Friend_. Another elastic word. What does it actually mean? Why did my friends consider themselves my friends? Was I _their_ friend? When Tseng calls them my friends, what relationship is he picturing in his mind?

Being my friend (whatever that means) – or rather, being Rufus Shinra’s friend has always been a highly sought-after position.

Gaining admission to the magic circle isn’t easy. _I don’t want him making the wrong sort of friends_, said Dad. You have to have the right qualifications. Your Dad has to play golf with my Dad. Your mother was my mother’s bridesmaid. _Birds of a feather flock together_, Aunt Pansy would say.

Before I met Mercedes, in the summer of the year I turned fourteen, my group of friends was made up of people I’d known all my life. _Let’s have some of your nice little friends round to tea_. Our nannies brought us to each other’s houses for play-dates. We attended the same nursery school, patronised the same dance classes and riding academies; we went to each other’s birthday parties, where we fought together on the bouncy castles, ate too much cake and jelly, formed our various alliances and rivalries.

Not everybody in that first draft made the final cut. That one little girl I was desperately keen on - Bridie? Bridget? Yes, Boss-eyed Bridget. Her wild eye enthralled me. She could look in two directions at once, like a lizard. I kept hitting her to make her turn those eyes on me, and one day I suppose she couldn’t take it any longer: she sank her teeth into my forearm, drawing blood. In the right light the scar is still visible. The red blood welling up from the tooth marks amazed me: how bright it was, what a contrast it made with my pale skin. Poor nanny nearly fainted. Dad sacked her when he found out.

The powers that be expelled Bridget the Biter from my orbit; I’ve never seen her since. Where does she go to school now? She must be heading off to uni soon. Does she tell that little anecdote, is it her party piece? _Who wants to hear about the time I bit Rufus Shinra?_

We were so pure when we were little. Our ambitions were wholesome: dustman (Alex), veterinarian (me), astronaut (Johnny), doctor (Kitty). Connie Hurda-Lainen wanted to be a cook. Her family chef more or less raised her. The Hurda-Lainens are important busy people. They made their money in protectives - bangles, bracers, headgear; _Powers Protectives_. After they sold that business to my grandfather, they bought land, and Connie’s father went into the army. Brigadier Anthony Hurda-Lainen, Heidegger’s number three. Connie’s mother used to be a model. She’s good at wearing clothes.

Connie was a fantastic cook. At fourteen years old she could cook from scratch a meal as good as anything they’d serve at the Constellation. Whenever we were down from Penscombe she’d invite us round so she could feed us. Her parents always seemed to be out. We’d sit around the table in the servant’s kitchen in her basement, Alex and Hughie and Johnny, Allegra and Kitty and Lola: the inner circle, my intimate friends, and I. 

Connie loathed Penscombe. She planned to run away the moment she turned sixteen. She was going to head for Costa del Sol, find a job in a restaurant, and spend the rest of her life in bliss surfing and cooking. Did we believe her? Did we believe _in_ her? We acted as if we did. We all made donations to the running-away stash she kept in her sock drawer. Her father was old-school and didn’t give her an allowance.

The summer before her sixteenth birthday, Connie fell off her parent’s yacht and drowned. They said it was an accident. None of us had lost somebody before. Well, except for pets and grandparents, which is all in the natural order of things. And my mother, of course, mustn’t forget her. That’s a loss which is hard to quantify. Can you miss what you never had?

I lost Alex six months ago. At my cousin Gus’s twenty-fifth birthday party he got so drunk he passed out in a back bedroom and choked on his own vomit. Tseng took me to the funeral. Dad was busy.

Johnny Casarini, my reliable prop forward, my tank, the first of us to turn eighteen, went down to the recruiting office on the morning of his birthday and enlisted in SOLDIER. I counter-signed the application personally. His mother was so beside herself she flew off and interrupted Dad in the middle of his golf game, begging him to intervene. So that’s the Casarinis crossed off our guest list.

Allegra Fortescue’s mother was one of my mother’s bridesmaids. Hughie's mother was another. She’s a pediatric heart surgeon. His old man’s an art historian. His sister Caroline runs an art gallery. In the olden days, before the war of the Three Queens, when great-grandfather Rufus was selling his brooms from door to door, Hughie’s great-grandparents reigned supreme as lords of the manor on their vast estates south of Junon. The dawn of mako power ushered in a more enlightened, meritocratic age, for which people of the Babbington’s ilk have never forgiven us; we have dispensed with such baubles as titles, but his family still owns thousands and thousands of ancestral acres producing wine, olives, mulberries, apricots. Their old manor house is one of the loveliest places I’ve ever been. When his parents die, I might buy it from him.

The last time I saw Hughie - only a month ago? - it was eleven o’clock in the morning and we were supposed to be playing tennis. We never left the clubhouse bar. He asked me why Cissnei wasn’t my bodyguard any more. Cissnei’s been off-site for at least a year; I don’t know where she’s gone or what she’s doing. I told Hughie she’d been promoted to better things. He said, “How’s Reno these days? I keep expecting to run into him down at the Honey Bee. Man, that was a great night, wasn’t it? One of my happiest memories. It’s too bad you had to leave early. Hey, Rufe - did I ever tell you Caroline use to have a thing for Reno? Back when - must have been back when we were in the second form.”

“You’ve told me that many times, Hughie.”

“Have I?”

“Did anything ever come of it? I would have thought she was out of his league by some considerable margin.” 

Hughie giggled salaciously. “Don’t let that prim exterior fool you. Caroline loves to get down and dirty. A slum boy is right up her back alley, if you know what I mean. And Reno, he’s - authentic.” Hughie sighed. “_Authentic_. Fuck it. That just slipped out. Remember _authentic_, Rufe?” He sighed again, more heavily this time. “I miss Alex.”

_Authentic_ was a concept Alex introduced to us, back in the spring of the third form. It filled a lexical vacancy we hadn’t realised existed, and soon it was our highest form of praise. “Oh my god, they are so authentic,” we’d say of someone who seemed real and unpretentious. Our standards were exacting. You couldn’t _try_ to be authentic. That would make you a pseud. If you were neither authentic nor a pseud, then you were a chooky, a fluffy-headed little chocobo chick identical to a million other yellow chicks and destined for a life of tragic conformity to the herd. _Chooky_ was Alex’s coinage too.

My friends and I aspired to be authentic. We hoped we were. We feared we weren’t.

“_You_ don’t have to worry,” Allegra informed me. “You couldn’t be un-authentic even if you tried. It’s really not fair.”

“How so, Legs?”

“Well. You know. Because. You’re ‘Rufus Shinra’. The one and only.”

“The ego defines itself,” said Kitty. “The one who is above envy is above judgement.”

Connie’s contribution remains my favourite: “Rufe, you’re the cheese that stands alone.”

Being a pseud was bad, but being a chooky was total humiliation. According to Allegra and Connie, ninety-five per cent of the girls in our form were chookies. Chookies were all about the brand. Their netball coach, Mrs Vandermeer, was a total chooky. Our history teacher was authentic. Antique, but authentic; old people had a distinct advantage in the authenticity stakes. Joining a fan club was chooky. Genesis was a pseud but Angeal was authentic. Opinion divided on Sephiroth. My friends agreed that all my Turks were authentic.

They were wrong, alas. Tseng isn’t authentic. This painful truth I kept to myself. I wished him to be authentic; I wanted it for his own sake. Tseng has no idea he’s inauthentic. He’s spent his entire life moulding himself into the perfect Turk in order to make Veld happy. On the other hand, at least he’s not a pseud. Pseuds know they’re faking it. Lazard, now – he was the quintessential pseud. As Veld well knew.

My first encounter with Mercedes Gandara took place during the height of our obsession with authenticity. That’s not an excuse, merely an explanation. It was early August, the summer between the third and the fourth forms. Hot days and warm nights. I’d spent the morning at shooting practice with Rosalind, the afternoon lounging around the pool at Allegra’s parents’ country place, about forty minutes flying time from Midgar. When I came home, the freshly-brushed suit laid out on my bed reminded me Dad was taking me out for dinner. I needed to be ready at seven o’clock sharp.

The suit was a rich colour, like an over-ripe berry or a fresh bruise, halfway between red and purple. Dad loves those colours. Someone must have told him they bring out the blue of his eyes. My mother, perhaps. The shirt chosen to go with it was pale blue cotton, the tie a dark blue silk.

To be fair, I don’t think he was deliberately, consciously, dressing me up as a carbon copy of himself. He liked those colours, he liked the figure-hugging cut and the velvety nap, and so he assumed I would like them too. And he wasn’t wrong; I didn’t dislike them. Until I met Mercedes I didn’t really think much about my clothes. I wore whatever my valet put out for me. The fact that I remember this one particular suit so vividly is entirely Mercedes’ fault.

At seven o’clock on the dot I got into the back of the limousine and settled down to wait for Dad. Whichever Turk was with us, it wasn’t Tseng. He must have been out of Midgar.

Forty-five minutes later, Dad showed up wearing a suit identical to my own, same shirt, same tie. I thought nothing of it. Dressing alike was our little family tradition. He wasn’t so fat then. Once the limo was on the move I asked him where we were going. He told me a business contact from Forland had moved to Midgar and was throwing a house-warming party. _Gandara Electrical Industries. _Refrigerators, washing machines, typewriters, and now computers. They had a daughter my age, he said. She’d be joining me at Penscombe in September.

In less than ten minutes we were outside their house, a typical Sector Three brownstone mansion over four floors, deeper than it was wide. The place was packed. We were as late as only the Shinra family can get away with being. Dad’s chauffeur carried our house-warming present in and put it on the gift table, where it was immediately lost among several hundred others. A butler led us through the crowd to meet our hosts.

Mrs Gandara was definitely chooky, but in a motherly way, so I could not utterly condemn her. Mr Gandara I suspected of pseudality, although that might have been a temporary effect produced by too-close proximity to my old man. Hardly anyone knows how to be themselves around him. Their daughter Pia looked chooky too: pink satin gown, double row of pearls. Pia was taller than me by at least four inches - I hadn’t yet gone through my growth spurt - and I was relieved to learn she was not the daughter destined to be my classmate. “Now where can Mercedes have got to?” said Mrs Gandara, gazing around rather vaguely.

Dad strolled off to schmooze and be schmoozed. I surveyed the room. The company was made up of all the usual suspects. Nothing new to be expected from them, nothing exciting. Over by some potted palms our history teacher stood talking to Hughie’s dad, but at the time I thought nothing of it. Edgar Braska was one of us. His grandmother had been a Casarini. He’d taught Hughie’s dad at Bovadem, before Dad shut down those dreaming spires and moved the engineering and maths departments to Junon, the science departments to Midgar.

The true significance of Dr Braska’s presence at the Gandara’s housewarming would only become apparent to me some months later.

Hughie and Alex came to claim me. Alex gave me a blackcurrant juice that Hughie topped up with rum from his pocket flask. The combination tasted like cough medicine. I drank it to be polite. We debated how to pass the time until dinner. In his other pocket Hughie had a pack of cards; Alex had some tranqs and some razor weed, but I didn’t think things had reached such desperate straits yet. And the spotlight was always on me. The Turks’ eyes were always on me. It wasn’t fair to Hughie and Alex. So they left me in order to go roll some joints, promising they’d be back soon. I threw the rest of my drink into a nearby planter and turned around, and there she was. I knew immediately that she’d been standing there watching me for some time.

“Nice suit,” she said. “Snazzy.”

I liked her straight away. I liked her for not trying to ingratiate herself. I liked her snark. I liked the fact that she had dyed her hair green. Short and uneven, it looked like a work of failed topiary, as if someone had hacked at it with a pair of blunt scissors (later, I learned this was exactly what she had done). I liked her rosy brown skin and her big bright eyes and her make-up: purple lipstick, gold eyeshadow, chipped glittery nail varnish.

Mercedes had clearly taken immense pains over her appearance in order to look - well, really quite dreadful. She was wearing what looked like a school uniform kilt, red and green, not my school’s colours, and not rolled up to the tops of her thighs the way Kitty and Allegra wore their kilts. Mercedes’ kilt just sort of hung off her skinny hips. She’d paired it, if _pair_ is the right word, with a custard yellow cable-knit jumper unravelling at the elbows, lacy tights, and what looked like SOLDIER surplus jack boots.

I think I fell a little in love right there and then. Well, no; perhaps love is too strong a word. Infatuation. How else can I explain it? To my fourteen-year-old eyes, she was the most authentic person I’d ever seen in the whole of my entire life.

“Hullo,” I said, holding out my hand, because whatever else they can accuse me of, no one can say I lack good manners. “I’m Rufus Shinra.”

She sniggered. “No kidding. The little Prez. I grew out of matching outfits when I was, like, two years old.”

That hurt. It literally, physically, hurt, as though she’d taken my heart and pinched it. It hurt because she was right and as soon as she said it, I could see she was right: I could see what I looked like. I looked _chooky_.

Mercedes was a girl whose imagination outran her mouth. She could be savage, but she wasn’t mean. When she realised she’d hurt me, she said, “Hey, it could be worse. At least your Dad picked something that suits you. That shade of mulberry makes your eyes look really blue. They are, aren’t they? I mean, they’re _really_ blue. Like, cornflower blue. I always assumed the photos were touched up - Oh no, oh, _shit_ \- “

That wasn’t aimed at me. She’d seen her mother bearing down on us. “Mercedes, dear gods, what are you wearing?” Mrs Gandara didn’t sound angry, though. She sounded the way Tseng sounds when I’ve made extra work for him. _What have you done now, you exasperating child?_

“Poor mummy, have you gone blind? Would you like me to describe it to you?”

“You know I expected you to wear your pink Tadzio. I had Jennie press it specially for you.”

“Pia’s in pink. I like this.”

“But you girls look so cute when you match. This bag lady costume - It’s embarrassing_._”

“But mummy, I live to embarrass my parents in front of all their friends. Anyway,” she added, “Rufus Shinra likes what I’m wearing. He thinks it looks imaginative and - and original. Don’t you, Rufus Shinra?”

I don’t know why she trusted me to be on her side. But I was. On her side. Already. I said, “She looks lovely, Mrs Gandara. Really - authentic.”

Mercedes triumphant! “See?”

Mrs Gandara gave me a look I can’t describe. A motherly look? How would I know? The entire situation felt as if some subtext was running through it in a language I didn’t speak. Mrs Gandara kept her eyes on me while she said to Mercedes, “Rufus Shinra is a gentleman. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, putting our guest on the spot like that. Now you get yourself up those stairs, young lady, and dress yourself in a manner a little more appropriate to this occasion.”

“Not the pink Tadzio.”

“It doesn’t have to be the Tadzio. We can compromise.”

Mercedes looked at me. This look I had no trouble reading. It was the equivalent of a prisoner alone in a cell banging on a pipe with her rusty spoon, waiting for the other prisoner in his equal lonely cell to answer. I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what she wanted from me. So I nodded.

“All right,” said Mercedes. “I’m not doing it for _you_, though, mummy. I’m doing it because I’m polite.”

Off she went in her clumpy boots, long, swinging strides, her arms and legs out of proportion to her body. They’d grown first and were waiting for the rest of her to catch up.

I might have heard her mother sigh. Then she asked me if I’d like Pia to show me their games room.

Later that night, at dinner, I saw Mercedes at the other end of the table wearing jeans and a red leather jacket. We didn’t get another chance to speak.

Every day for the rest of that summer I thought about her. I kept hoping we’d bump into each other, but we never did. No sign of her at the tennis club. Maybe she didn’t play tennis? I accepted more than the usual number of party invitations, reckoning that by the law of averages our paths were bound to cross sooner or later. No such luck. When Dad told me he was playing a round of golf with her father, I did something I’d never done before and invited myself to lunch at the clubhouse. Mr Gandara enjoyed talking business, but when it came to his family he wasn’t very forthcoming. Either that, or he had no idea what was going on in his children’s lives.

I said, “Mercedes is coming to Penscombe next term, isn’t she? Do you know which house she’ll be in?”

“I leave all that to her mother,” he said.

I didn’t dare press him further. Not with Dad sitting right beside me, radar pinging. He was always asking me whether I had a girlfriend yet.

On the first day of the Kalm Festival I ran into Pia Gandara at the racetrack. She and her collective of like-minded vegetarian student types were setting up a booth outside the entrance to the members’ enclosure. I asked if I could go over to see what they were promoting. Reno sloped along behind me, keeping his distance, never taking his eye off me. They call this giving me space.

The banners flapping round the booth read _League Against Cruel Sports_ and _Sahagin Rights_ and _Fly Free Foundation_. “Chocobos can’t fly,” I pointed out.

Pia had the grace to laugh. “Is that your guard hound, Rufus? She’s a gorgeous girl. What’s her name?”

We stood and chatted for a while. Pia was in her second year at Junon Polytechnic, studying electrical engineering. When she graduated, she wanted to work in our Weapons Department for a while, until her father retired and she took over the business. So far, so chooky. The animal-lib interests were, to my mind, just another kind of fan club. She told me she was six years older than Mercedes. This gave me the opening I was waiting for. “How is Mercedes?” I asked

“Grounded”, said Pia.

The night after the house-warming, she’d been caught on the roof of their Sector Two townhouse, smoking razor-weed and feeding a stray cat. Their father hated cats. He hated all animals, apparently. So she was under house arrest until school started.

Having extracted the information I desired, I walked away from that conversation feeling positively Turk-ish. Mission accomplished! Reno’s sharp eyes noticed the bounce in my step. “She’s way too old for you, champ.”

“Mind your own business.”

“Minding you _is_ my business. I’m telling you this for your own good. That Gandara chick’s a dyke, everyone knows it. Sorry to disappoint you.”

He wasn’t sorry. And he wasn’t getting any reaction out of me.

“Hey,” he said, “You do know what a dyke is, right? A chick who fucks other chicks. Man, how do they even do that? Without, you know, _equipment_. Can you even picture it?”

I quickened my pace, but I couldn’t shake off the sound of his laughter. 

Someone’s opening my door. Suppertime already? Who’s on duty today, I wonder?

Ah - It’s Hunter. Good. This won’t be entirely boring. 

She loathes me, but I rather like her. Such a perfect storm of fury and resentment behind that lovely face. That’s not all due to me; she came to us that way.

“Hunter, you again? Did you switch with someone? I thought it wasn’t your turn again until tomorrow.”

What a glorious scowl. Her life is so unfair. Everybody’s out to get her.

What’s on my tray? Fish and chips, peas and ketchup, wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper. It’s steaming hot. Must be from that chip shop on the corner of First and Warehouse that Tys speaks of so highly. I’ve always wanted to try it.

“Did you make this yourself, Hunter? You’re really spoiling me.”

Here it comes. Don’t tense up. It’ll hurt more.

The way she’s hitting me reminds me of the time I saw Tseng in the gym, taking out his frustrations on the punching bag. She’s being careful to avoid my head -

Stopping already? She has so much self-control. She wants to kill me, but she’s not allowed. My shoulders are going to be stiff later.

“Thank you, Hunter.”

She’s squinting at me, breathing hard. “What? What for?”

“For thinking I’m worth it.”

What will she do? Hit me again?

No. Shove my food off the table. Like a scorned cat. Exit, fur bristling, tail lashing. The door closes itself behind her.

She’ll complain about me to whoever will listen. _Can you believe what he said? What the fuck is wrong with him?_

Dear Hunter, believe me, you are not the first person to ask that question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The schoolfriends of Rufus who are mentioned in this chapter and play a role of some importance in this story are: Connie Hurda-Lainen, Kitty Tredescant, Allegra 'Legs' Fortescue, Alex Leigh, Johnny Casarini, and Hughie Babbington. His cousin's full name is Augustus Lomo, but in fact they're only second cousins once removed. 
> 
> Hughie's sister Caroline once went on a date with Reno. It didn't go as well as they'd hoped. That story is told in "A Misunderstanding" on this site.  
https://archiveofourown.org/works/9121285


	5. Chapter 5

He promised he would come back later. “I’ll see you later,” is what he said. When people say “I’ll see you later,” it means later _the same day_. If you’re not planning to return the same day you don’t say “I’ll see you later”, you say, “I’ll see you tomorrow” or “I’ll see you next week.” He definitely said, “I’ll see you later.” And that was days ago. Where is he? I would make tally-marks on the wall if I had any idea when one day ends and another begins. Did they never have a clock in here, or did they take it away when I moved in? Another one of their little mind-fucks.

Is it still May? Or have we moved on to June?

If I were at Penscombe right now I’d be getting ready to take my final exams. My friends and I would be sitting round one of those big old oak tables in High Leckie, sharing revision notes and passing round the contraband bags of sweets Alex’s mother sent to him, the ones his Dad’s company made: Leigh’s Fruit Jellies; Leigh’s Luscious Licorice; Leigh’s Strawberry Bombs and Sour Tonberries. No eating allowed in the library! Your sticky fingers will stain the pages! The afternoon light would be falling through the tall windows, the smell of slightly burnt toast would let us know the scouts were putting up tea, and Midgar would seem a long way away. Not only in distance. Another time. A different, older world, and in many ways a better one.

If Dad hadn’t forced me to leave school, maybe none of this would have happened.

Dad was the first Shinra to go Penscombe. In his day it was a boys’ school. He didn’t stay long; he didn’t like it. _Fusty damn place __full of useless snobs_. He hadn’t intended to send me there. His first choice for my secondary school was the military academy he’d founded in Junon. All my friends were going to Penscombe, but he didn’t think that mattered. You’ll make new friends, he said. The Academy will toughen you up, my lad.

My shame at my inability to get excited by the prospect of making new friends and toughening myself up only compounded my misery. Dad was right; Dad was always right. Why couldn’t I will myself to be stronger? Why was I such a capital-L Loser?

The moment Aunt Pansy got wind of Dad’s plans, she stormed his citadel and put her foot down. “How _dare_ you think of turning Patricia’s precious boy into some tawdry mascot for that academy of yours, Julius? I absolutely will not allow it. Poor Patricia, she must be turning in her grave. That academy would ruin him. He’d be surrounded by sycophants. He’d pick up vulgar habits and a bourgeois mindset. Not, I think you’ll agree, the best preparation for his future as president of this company. Rufus needs to be with his own kind. Palmer boys have always been Penscombites and always will be. I trust I make myself clear?”

Good old Aunt Pansy. Stays out of my life for months on end, then sweeps into town, buys me lunch, assassinates my father’s character, gives me racing tips, and sweeps out again. The tips are always on the money, too. Aunt Pansy knows her birds.

That’s two favours I owe her. First she gave me Dark Nation (“children need animals, Julius”) and then she gave me Penscombe.

At Penscombe, portraits of my mother’s ancestors can be found lining the old wood-panelled corridors and the high walls of the dining Commons, part of that elite gallery of men of destiny - generals, philosophers, politicians, merchant-venturers - who had once been boys like us; whose collective fame was meant to fire our ambitions. If ever I was in danger of succumbing to the delusion that I’m the most important person who’s ever lived - which was, I suspect, the fate Aunt Pansy feared lay in store for me at the Junon military academy - Penscombe knocked that right out of my head. In every classroom, at every meal, the great men of the past looked down on us. What made us think we were capable of filling their shoes? Even if we did manage to earn ourselves a bit of fame, rack up a few accomplishments, life was fleeting and our hour would soon pass; we would go where they had gone, reduced to portraits on a wall, and new boys and girls would take our places.

There’s a painting of Uncle Roland hanging in Commons too, a Joan Mowbray. He gifted it to Penscombe on Founder’s Day the year before I left. It’s an interesting work, though it doesn’t look much like him. A symphony in yellow.

Mercedes used to call it _still life with jaundice. _

First day of the first term of the fourth form: trunk in the helicopter, tuck-box in the helicopter, Dark Nation in the helicopter, me in the helicopter, Turks in the seats beside me, and Veld, my fake fill-in father, in the cockpit, running the show. Dad couldn’t come. Calendar clash, vital meeting, Wutai envoy, can’t miss it. The Director of the Turks should have been at that meeting too, but somehow, for Veld, escorting me to school was more important.

Was I supposed to be grateful? His presence didn’t make up for the lack of Dad. Did he think I wasn’t used to Dad’s absence by that point? Dad never really existed anyway. I made him up. My two fathers: imaginary Dad, all-powerful, all-knowing, all-benevolent, and utterly terrifying; and substitute Dad, keenly pursuing his own agenda. I was pinned between them. Why couldn’t they leave me alone? All I wanted was to get back to school as fast as possible. Back to my real life. I wanted to see my friends. To see Mercedes again, and find out if she really was what I thought she could be.

Veld knew how I felt about school, so how could Dad not have known? I loved school. I _loved_ school. My dream would have been to stay at school all year round, no exeats, no holidays. We Penscombites nicknamed it _Penscombe Penitentiary_, but it never felt like a prison to me. No Turks monitoring my every move, no PSM except the ones at the gates, no key cards, no bomb scares, no one sticking a camera in my face flash flash flash. Of course every member of the staff and faculty had been vetted by Veld, and of course they all reported to him when required to do so, but I never committed any offenses or broke any rules worth getting excited about. I’m not stupid.

I loved everything about Penscombe. I loved my house. I loved my teams. I loved my classes. Maybe I didn’t _love_ the beaks, but I did respect them. I loved their classes; I loved learning. It felt effortless. I have a retentive memory; understanding comes easily to me. It’s the same with chess. If I’m going to see the solution at all, I’ll see it straight away. I don’t always.

_All As again, eh, clever clogs? Take a look at his report card, Veld. The boy must get his brains from his mother, don’t you think?_

I have my doubts. She married my father, after all. Is that the kind of thing an intelligent woman would do?

Dad has a saying he likes to quote ad nauseam: A students work for B students at companies run by C students. Dad never finished school. He left when he was fifteen to work in his father’s business. That was before the war, the Great War; the war that changed everything, according to Dr Braska. Dad believes there’s such a thing as being ‘too clever’. And when someone’s achieved as much as he has, it’s difficult to argue against his logic. Art, poetry, music, literature - he thinks that sort of frippery is for women. And queers. A man only needs to be ‘smart enough’. Dad used to say that about Lazard: “He’s smart enough.” Until it became obvious that he wasn’t.

My third form maths teacher Ms Forbes unconsciously encapsulated Dad’s attitude one day when she handed back an algebra test, and without stopping to consider her words told me, “This is excellent work. You have a first class mind, Rufus. You could have been a real mathematician.”

_Could have been_. To a thirteen-year-old boy.

There was only one thing I could be, and it wasn’t a vet or an astronaut or a mathematician. My fate was sealed the day I was born - no, the very moment I was conceived. In the fullness of time, I would become my father, but until that day came, Penscombe represented, for me, glorious, glorious, glorious freedom.

Veld parked the helicopter on the football pitch and the four of us headed for Fortitude House: me, my substitute Dad, his Turk, and Dark Nation. Veld and the Turk went upstairs to inspect the set I’d be sharing with Alex. It was up on the fourth floor, with no jutting windowsills to give kidnappers easy access, no drainpipes or trees for assassins to climb. It did have a view of the Junon mountains, which I’d asked for. Alex hadn’t yet arrived, so while the Department of Administrative Research combed through my boarding house for potential security risks, Dark Nation and I waited outside for my friend. Other Forties and their parents went in and out – new bugs, terrible twos, tall hairy fifth formers – and greeted me as they passed, but kept their distance from my guard hound.

Until I came to Penscombe, the rule against pets had been strictly enforced without fear or favour. Veld compelled Dr Wiley to bend the rule for Dark Nation. I didn’t ask him to do it, though I was glad he did. Dad didn’t ask him either. Veld did it because he knew she would keep me safe.

The scouts arrived with my trunks and I sent them upstairs. It was late afternoon; the sun was in my face. I put a hand up to shade my eyes and looked down the long sweep of lawn to College House and the car park. Seeking Alex, I found Mercedes.

She was with Pia, the two of them heading towards Minerva house, Pia tall and graceful, Mercedes all arms and legs. I almost called out to her before I remembered Veld and the Turk would hear me. They knew all my other friends. I wanted Mercedes to remain my secret.

I liked the way she walked. I liked everything about her. She looked beautiful to me, haloed by the glow of the afternoon sun. My heart pounded with delight. This is love, I thought. I’m in love with her. I’m in love with a girl. Thank god.

That night after lights out Alex came into my bed. This was something we’d started doing the previous term. He initiated it. I allowed it. Dad always used to say I’m too passive. _Where’s your gumption, boy? Little scaredy-cat. Speak up! Louder!_

“This is gay,” I said. “Stop it.”

Alex said, “We don’t have to do anything if you don’t want. We can just lie together. I like being close to you.”

I pushed him away. ‘Stop acting like such a faggot, Alex.”

There are many things I regret. Trying to kill my father isn’t one of them.

.

The next day, third period, I walked into Dr Braska’s history classroom and found her sitting at a desk in the very back row, disguised as a total chooky: regulation school uniform, tie, knee socks, the works. Her earrings and studs had been removed (school rules), her nail varnish had been removed (school rules), she wore no make-up (school rules), and she’d visited a professional hairdresser at some point between our last meeting and this one: her hair had been restored to its natural brown. Before I arrived she’d been staring sullenly out the window, but when she saw me, she smiled.

In some ways it was the best moment of my life: the moment when I was most purely, completely, confidently normal.

I took the seat beside her. We would keep those seats for the rest of the term. “You scrub up nicely, Gandara.”

“Sssh, I’m under cover. Don’t blow it for me. In real life, I’m a Wuteng spy. ”

I knew this game. “In real life,” I said, “I’m a Turk.”

“Curses! My nemesis.”

Dr Braska walked in, carrying an armful of textbooks.

“And there he is,” she murmured, sinking down in her seat. “Don Dinero, the double-agent I’ve been sent to kill.”

“What a peculiar coincidence,” I murmured back, sinking down likewise so that our eyes were level. “Maybe we should work together?”

“Sit up, Shinra,” said Dr Braska.

Is this what Tseng wants to know? How it started? We were kids. We were playing.

Throughout that term, in every history class, we played that game. Mercedes spun the narrative and I fleshed out the supporting details. Don Dinero, a notorious weapons smuggler who had double-crossed both Wutai and Shinra, had been forced to adopt the persona of an elderly schoolmaster after a painful operation in which his face had been completely reconstructed. She was a ninja with a talent for disguise; I was a corporate assassin with a gift for cracking codes. I did, in fact, invent a code for us, which I used for writing my history notes. I tried to teach her how to use it, but Mercedes had no head for that kind of thing.

My old friends didn’t know what to make of this new friendship.

“That girl is completely doo-lally,” said Lola. “I mean, no offense, Rufe, I know you like her for some inexplicable reason, but she is an utter space cadet. She’s flunked out of three schools already.”

“She’s got nice legs,” said Johnny.

“That’s not what I heard,” said Hughie, responding to Lola. “She didn’t flunk out. She was expelled.”

“Sarah Smee told me something,” said Allegra. “Mercedes Gandara is _definitely_ not a virgin. No, but listen. You know why she was grounded all summer, right? Her mother _caught_ her. You know. Knickers down. Bottoms up. _Doing it_. With her tennis coach. You know, the one with the buzzcut. Harvey. He’s got to be at least _twenty-five_.”

“Ugh,” said Connie.

“I heard she was shagging her orthodontist,” said Hughie.

“Come on, you guys, stop spreading rumours,” said Alex, taking what should have been my line. “None of that’s true. She was grounded for smoking. Her dad is strict.”

Lola turned to me. “Are you having sex with her?”

I nearly gagged. “What? No!”

With the benefit of hindsight, my revulsion at the thought of being touched by Mercedes the way Alex and I had - so briefly - touched each other should have opened my eyes at least a little bit. But there are none so blind as those who will not see. I told myself my love for Mercedes transcended the physical. It was a spiritual union, a meeting of soulmates.

“Then I just don’t get it,” said Lola. “I just don’t see the appeal.”

“Rufe can be friends with whoever he wants,” declared my loyal Alex. He was too good for me. Too good for this world...

They would have made room for her if I’d insisted. But Mercedes didn’t want to be friends with my friends. She didn’t care about being liked. There were things out in the big world she needed to do, a real life out there to be lived, and she wasn’t planning on sticking around in a mouldy penitentiary like Penscombe long enough to need friends. Just for her nemesis, though, she would make an exception. Just until our mission was complete.

Inside Dr Braska’s class we sat practically hip to hip. Braska had to keep telling us off for whispering to each other. Outside his class, we hardly spoke. In the dining hall she sat at Minerva table and I sat with the Forties. She didn’t join any clubs. Whenever I saw her around the school she was busy with something solitary, sketching, reading, listening to music. I was her only friend. I felt anointed. Chosen.

Was I chosen? Or, let’s say, targeted? It is possible. But unless Tseng catches Fuhito, I’ll never know now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Uncle Roland" is Palmer.  
"Aunt Pansy" is Palmer's sister, who trains racing chocobos.  
Rufus' mother was their cousin.


	6. Chapter 6

Tseng’s here! At last!

“You took your time, Commander.”

He doesn’t like it when I call him Commander. Veld is the Commander; Tseng, in his heart, is Mr Second-in-Command. He can give orders, of course he can, he does it all day long. But he’s happiest following them. That’s why he’s inauthentic and doesn’t know it. He thinks of himself as a natural number two, but he wasn’t born like this, he was moulded to be like this: Veld’s eternal deputy. He’s a thinker, he’s a problem-solver; he’s a savage; he could have been anything, and this, this cautious, diligent Turk taking the seat opposite me, this is what Veld made of him, this is what Veld reduced him to, and it just - enrages me, sometimes.

Perhaps it’s not too late. Veld’s gone now. That’s a start.

What’s this he’s laying on the table? A clear plastic wallet, protection against dirty fingers, and inside it a single-sided, brightly-coloured A4 promotional flyer. Well done, Tseng. Exhibit B. Recovered, I’m sure, from the shelf of files labelled “Rufus aged 14”. I know what this flyer is and he knows that I know but he’s pushing it across to me anyway, as if I needed to take a closer look. “You recognise this, don’t you?”

Indeed I do. Cheap thin paper, cheap smudged ink - dirty green, dirty blue, mako colours, swirling around a shocking red centre designed to hook and reel in any passing eye. The deformed fetus in the photo, slick and slimy, looks as if it’s just been aborted. Above it and below, a few words in scare font. _Mako is Poison. Shinra Kills_.

He says, “It was Mercedes Gandara, wasn’t it? She was the one who spread these flyers round your school.”

“Yes. You pinned the crime on the wrong man.”

“He may not have been guilty of these flyers, but he was guilty of the book.”

_Guilty of the book_. What a beautiful turn of phrase. Fit for a tombstone. I must remember it.

He says, “Were you aware that Mercedes Gandara was the one bringing Avalanche propaganda into Penscombe?”

“Not the first time it happened.”

Oh my god, his face! The horror! “There was a second time?”

I’ve surprised him with something he didn’t know. I live for such moments. “Yes, there was a second time.”

“When?”

My power in this dialogue is that I have all the answers. His power is that he can walk away whenever he likes. “We’ll get to that. Let’s confine ourselves to the first time, for now. What did you want to ask me about this flyer?”

“You weren’t collaborating with her?”

“I told you, No.”

“What about the second time?”

He’s so impatient. “Ask me something about this flyer, Tseng.”

Thinking, thinking… Come on, Tseng, there are so many things you could ask.

He says, “What was your reaction when you saw it?”

“My very first thought was that it meant trouble for me.”

“The image didn’t disturb you?”

“To be honest, I thought it was gross but interesting.”

“And the anti-Shinra propaganda?”

“What about it? Where is the lie? Mako is poison; we’ve never tried to hide that fact. We put warning signs around the reactors. Don’t fall in! You’ll die! The high incidence of birth defects in children living close to reactor outflow pipes is an open secret. And Shinra does kill. Kalm, Banora, Nibelheim, Corel… Need I go on?”

“None of those had happened when you were in the fourth form.”

“Kalm had.”

“You didn’t know about Kalm then.”

“Is that what Veld told you? That what happened at Kalm is a secret? Don’t delude yourself. We may not have known all the details to which I’m now privy, but we knew something bad had happened at Kalm and that Shinra was in some way responsible. We knew it wasn’t something we could discuss openly or ask our teachers about. You see, Tseng, this is why I keep telling you cover-ups are a pointless waste of money. The truth always gets out. Always.”

Is there anything he’d like to say in reply? Yes? No? Nothing? All right then, I’ll go on.

“What’s more, we were right in the middle of the Wutai War when I was in the fourth form. Sephiroth’s image was on the front page of every newspaper. My old man’s organic killing machine. This company used to be a weapons company. We still have a weapons department. Killing is our business. I’m sorry, is that something else I wasn’t supposed to know?”

I’ve made him look sad. Cheer up, Tseng. The boy you’re feeling sad for is long, long gone.

“Is that why you did it, Rufus?”

He has no idea his eyes are urging me to say Yes. What a beautiful, respectable reason that would be.

If only - No, don’t go there.

I could give him a shrug and let him read into it whatever he liked.

No, that would be a lie.

“Did you know, Tseng, the reason Lazard never took off those white gloves is because he had webs between his fingers? He grew up in the slums, didn’t he, near an outflow pipe. Mako duck! Quack quack!”

“How do you know that?”

“Oh my god, you mean it’s true?”

Poor Tseng. I've disappointed him again. You'd think he'd be used to it by now.

I really don’t believe I’m getting the full benefit of his famous interrogation technique here. He’s shifting his weight, moving the chair slightly, looking for a different angle from which to approach me. Go on. Take me by surprise.

“Do you remember the date these flyers appeared in your school, Rufus?”

“How could I forget? It was two days after the long October exeat.”

“Did you know Mercedes and her family spent that exeat week in Cosmo Canyon?”

“Yes, she told me they were going there.”

“Did she tell you why?”

“She said Pia had signed up for some sort of retreat run by a man she’d met through the Vegetarian Society, and she and her mother were going along for the ride. She said she’d always wanted to see the Canyon.”

“Did she say who this man was? Did she mention a name?”

“No, but I assume it was Fuhito, and I imagine you do too. It does seem like the likeliest place for them to have met. Are you really only figuring this out now? I would have thought you’d been through the Cosmo Canyon guest-lists with a fine-toothed comb years ago.”

“Bugenhagen claims they kept no attendance records for Avalanche’s Planet Life retreats. I can’t decide whether he was colluding or merely turning a blind eye. The Canyon gets thousands of visitors every year, we can’t investigate them all. Pia and Mercedes Gandara were not persons of interest to us then. Was she your girlfriend?”

Ah. Wasn’t expecting that. Smoothly done, though. No warning, not the slightest change in look or tone. All the same, I should have seen it coming. It’s a question he was bound to ask me sooner or later. What answer shall I give him? The prudent thing might be to say Yes.

“If she were my girlfriend, would that explain everything to your satisfaction?”

“Was she?”

“She was a girl. She was my friend.”

“Were you intimate?”

“We were close for a while. She had a lot of problems. She was failing all her subjects except art. I tried to help her with her maths.”

“Were you having physical relations with her?”

Reno wouldn’t have been so coy about it. _So, were you fucking her?_ Tseng’s trying to keep this clinical. He has no idea he’s making it worse.

“No.” That one time doesn’t count.

“We know about the incident in the cinema.”

Of course they do. Of course they do. How foolish of you, Rufus Shinra, to imagine anything of that nature would be allowed to remain your private business. The President expects a report. They’ve probably got lists in their files of every single person I’ve ever allowed to touch me. When I’m President, I’m going to burn those fucking files.

“Did you have sexual relations with her at Penscombe?”

“That would have been against school rules.”

“Did you?”

Right. Enough. He’s pushed me too far. “What are you going to ask me next? How many times did I fuck her? What positions did we do it in? Are you enjoying this conversation, Tseng? Do you get off on talking to me about sex? Oh my god, you do, don’t you? You look forward to these little sessions, just you and me. Don’t you? You perv.”

It’s not just me and him. It never is. He’s looking at the mirror. _See what I have to put up with?_

Bad boys must be punished. He’s getting up to leave now. He’s going to leave me here all by myself to think about what I did wrong. But first, he must pause for the final word. Here he goes -

“These flyers were bait, Rufus. Mercedes Gandara was bait, too. She did what she was told to do. She hooked the biggest fish in the pond.”

“Or maybe the big fish chewed her up and spat her out, hm? Mercedes is dead. I’m still here. You really need to stop and think before you come out with these clichés, Commander.”


	7. Chapter 7

Tseng forgot to take the flyer with him. I suppose he doesn’t need it any more. Unless he left it behind on purpose.

Those bloody fucking flyers. They caused so much trouble, and they achieved absolutely nothing.

A slow Tuesday afternoon in history class. We were watching Dr Braska’s slideshow, _One Hundred Years of Urbanisation_. Before Shinra: over-crowding, unemployment, epidemics of crippled children. After Shinra: streetlights, vaccination, education for all. The seat on my left was empty. Mercedes had announced she felt a migraine coming on just as Braskers was starting the presentation. He’d told her to “pop over to the san and see the nurse.” We all envied her escape.

As with his presence at their housewarming party, the significance of her absence at this crucial juncture only became apparent to me some months later.

The slideshow was a long one. About twenty minutes in, Hughie asked to be excused. Hughie used to have a weak bladder when he was younger so the teachers could never refuse him permission to go to the loo. He couldn’t have been gone more than five minutes, but when he came back it was obvious something had happened. He kept trying to catch my eye.

A knock at the door. Dr Wiley, the headmaster, needed to speak to Dr Braska. The two of them had a little hush-hush confab in the doorway. They both looked at me. Wiley departed in a flap of gown and Dr B closed the door behind him, turning the key.

“Lockdown drill,” he announced.

Everybody started talking at once. Hughie took advantage of the confusion to come over to me, taking Mercedes’ seat. “Have a look at this, Rufe.” He dropped a tightly wadded ball of paper into my hand. “Careful. Don’t let Braskers catch you.”

Before I’d finished smoothing it out I knew what it was. We’d all seen the graffiti. We’d all seen the propaganda plastered on the Midgar lamp-posts.

“I found it in the bog,” said Hughie. “There’s dozens of ‘em, scattered all over the floor. I bet that’s what this lockdown is about. Did you see Wiley’s face - ?”

“Shinra, what’s that?” Dr Braska’s voice sounded like a blade being sharpened. “Give it to me at once.

I did as he asked. He put the leaflet in his waistcoat pocket without stopping to look at it, saying, “This is not for your eyes.”

_Why not? _I thought. _My name's on it._

Braskers wasn’t someone you talked back to. He quickly got us under control. “Babbington, return to your seat. Since we find ourselves suffering an enforced incarceration, let us improve the shining hour and continue with the lesson. Miss Tredescant, are you ready to take notes? This next slide shows the lack of sanitation in the fishermen’s huts at Junon prior to the modernisation program…”

Eventually the bell rang for the end of the lesson. We could hear the other classes being let out. History4 was not let out. Because of me, because I was in that room, we had to stay in lockdown until nightfall, when Veld arrived from Midgar, bringing with him Rude and Rosalind and two score PSM from the Garuda battalion. My classmates cheered when they saw the lights of the big troop carrier approaching. We were all very hungry. Veld himself came to release us. Everyone else rushed off to Commons for their grub. Veld, Rude and Rosalind escorted me across the Sward to Dr Wiley’s private study, where I was compelled to listen while our headmaster, whom all the students both feared and respected, apologised to me for the insult to my family’s good name and assured me the culprit would be swiftly found and severely punished.

Veld told me Dad had instructed him to bring me back to Midgar.

“Because of some stupid flyers in the toilets? No.”

Wiley said, “It might be wiser - “

Veld cut him off. “I’m taking you home. It’s not safe here.

“That’s ridiculous. I’m not going.”

I knew that if I let Veld take me away from Penscombe at that moment, I’d never be allowed to return.

Veld insisted. I refused. Back and forth, a tug of war. I felt I was fighting for my life. Dr Wiley was no bloody help at all. He probably would have been glad to see the back of me. My presence in his school made everything twice as complicated as it needed to be.

Then I remembered something important. “Penscombe’s playing at home to Junon Military tomorrow. I’m the Captain. You can’t ask me to abandon my team.”

If Veld had truly believed my safety required me to return to Midgar, he wouldn’t have given in. He knew perfectly well Dad was over-reacting. My commitment to my team was what swayed him round to my side. I should have thought of it earlier, and saved us both ten minutes of butting heads.

“You can stay for the match,” he agreed. “I’ll stay too. We’ll all stay. I’ll take you home afterwards.”

I had won the first battle. I could win this war. “You should call my father and tell him to come watch me play. If he comes here he’ll see how safe it is.”

The night passed calmly and by the next day the panic was dying down. We annihilated Junon Military forty-three to seventeen. I scored two tries. Rude gave me the thumbs up from the sidelines; Rosalind whooped every time I took possession of the ball. What a great day that was. I only wished my old man had been there to see me. At the end of the match my team picked me up and carried me around on their shoulders, chanting my name. Rufus! Rufus! Not Shinra. Just _Rufus._

Veld shook my hand, said “Congratulations, Captain”, and told me Dad had agreed I could stay, as long as Rude stayed with me. The flyer case had been solved. A groundsman who’d run off when the panic erupted had been caught by PSM, brought back to the school, questioned by Veld, and had made a full confession.

Rude became my shadow. He slept in Alex’s bed, escorted me to lessons, ate meals with me in Commons, kept me company when I walked Dark Nation. He was a force-field holding my friends at bay. Mercedes scuttled away at the sight of him. Alex had to move out into Hughie and Johnnie’s set, but he’d been spending more and more time there anyway. At the end of a fortnight no rogue gun-runners had blown up Fortitude House and no Crescent Unit ninjas had taken me captive, and my old man must have decided there were better uses for a trained Turk’s time, because Rude was summoned back to Midgar.

Mercedes found me in the library. I was writing an essay for Braska. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Have you forgotten about those leaflets in the loo already? They were so horrible. I was really upset. Didn’t they bother you?”

I told her what I told Tseng. Mako poisons. Shinra kills. Where’s the lie?

“But doesn’t _that_ bother you?”

A good question, Mercedes, worthy of a thoughtful answer. The reason I didn’t have an answer ready was because I was only fourteen, and your question was new to me. This question, which you, in your guilty innocence, asked me so guilelessly, or guilefully (we’ll never know now), is the one that started me thinking. I’ve been thinking about it for four years. And here I am.

Fuhito has never asked me that question. Does that surprise you? I’m ashamed to say that he probably understands me quite well. And here’s the twist. Between the two of us, _I’m_ the conservationist. I only want to make a few minor adjustments. He wants to tear down everything. Total destruction. He has no interest in saving the planet. Did you figure that out before you died? I hope not.

Since I didn’t have an authentic answer ready, I gave Mercedes the one she wanted to hear. “Of course it bothers me. That’s _my_ name on those leaflets. But what can I do?”

She took my hand and squeezed it comfortingly, confirming I’d said the right thing. My words had made her happy. Making her happy made me happy. Life was so easy!

We sat there for a while holding hands and then she said, “Do you think he did it? The one who confessed?”

“He fled the scene of the crime. Why would he do that if he wasn’t guilty?”

“Rufus - if someone didn’t do it, what would make them confess?”

“Foolish ninja! Our Commander has ways of making people talk.”

I only wanted to make her laugh. She looked as if she was going to be sick. It stuck in my mind, that look on her face.


	8. Chapter 8

My door’s opening. Tseng?

No - Dad. Fuck. Fuck. No. Why?

Dad _and_ Tseng, Tseng behind Dad. Whose fucking terrible idea was this?

Get up. Get up. Straighten yourself. He’s here, you have to do this. Shoulders back – damn, those scars are tight -

“Son.” He’s touching the side of my face. Steady; don’t flinch. He wants to hug me. Please don’t hug me. He resists the urge. Did he sense my resistance? Unlikely; sensitivity isn’t his strong suit. He pats my cheek, my shoulder, my arm as if I’m one of Aunt Pansy’s birds. He doesn’t know my clothes conceal bruises. Tell him? What, rat out my jailers? I’d rather bite my own tongue off.

It feels as if he’s patting me to check whether I’m solid all the way through. Sorry, old man, the real Rufus made his escape year ago. Say hello to his doppleganger.

I’d have given Hojo my DNA for that. At last, something useful he could have made.

Dad wants to sit down. Needs to sit down; he’s a little out of breath. He doesn’t look well. Tseng brings him the chair I usually sit on during our interrogations. Dad waves his hand for me to sit. Other chair, or bed? The bed’s further away from him. It creaks when I sit on it. Dad doesn’t like the sound it makes. He doesn’t like his flimsy metal chair. He’s looking around the room, surprised and displeased by my living conditions, which only confirms his terminal lack of imagination.

“Are they looking after you, Rufus?”

What does he think I’ll say? _Help me Daddy, they’re mean to me_? Never. Not even if they were sawing my legs off and pulling out my fingernails one by one.

“You’re looking a bit peaky, son.”

I expect I am. This room has no windows, no fresh air and no natural light and I’ve been shut in here for how long now? Not that I’m complaining. He’ll never hear me complain. Stone walls do not a prison make. Third form, Miss Adebayo’s lit class. We were each assigned a poem to memorise and that was mine.

“I’m fine, Dad.”

“Eating all right?”

“The food is fine.”

“That bed looks like a recipe for a bad back.”

“It’s fine, Dad.”

“We’ll organise something better. Get some rugs in here too, something on the walls to cheer the place up.”

More proof, if proof were needed, that my stay here is unlikely to be of short duration.

“Becky can pack up some of your things for you. She thinks you’re away on a business trip. Tour of the bases. That’s what we’ve told everyone. Tseng thought it was best.”

“I’m sure Tseng knows what’s best.”

“Are you cooperating with him, son?”

“We are making progress, sir.” Tseng is such a meddler.

“That’s good. That’s good.”

Awkward silence.

Getting quite long, this awkward silence.

Well, it’s not as if we ever did have much to say to each other.

Dad claps his hands on his knees once, twice, as if he’s getting ready to heave his bulk up out of that chair and take his leave. Ah but no - he’s opening his mouth, preparatory to delivering his parting piece of wisdom:

“You’ve made a damned mess of things, Rufus. I don’t know how long it will take us to straighten it all out. Until we do, you’re in here for your own safety. You understand that, don’t you? With Fuhito and that treacherous sack of shit Veld running around lose out there, it’s not safe for you to be outside. All it takes is one bullet.”

And he can’t risk losing me, now Lazard’s gone. 

To have one child try to kill you, President Shinra, could be regarded as a misfortune, but when both children try to kill you it begins to look a lot like retribution.

Dad thinks he knows why I did it. That’s why he doesn’t ask. He’s found an explanation his vanity can tolerate and he’s sticking with it. Hasn’t he always say there’s such a thing as being too clever? He thinks his boy was miffed at being denied a more active role in company policy-making; he _knows_ his little clever-clogs lacked the experience to understand that he wasn’t yet ready for such a role. In my arrogance and naivety I was seduced, misled, and used by our cunning foes. A kid like me never stood a chance against the diabolical cleverness of Fuhito.

Dad, I gave it my best shot and I failed. Just as you always predicted I would. That’s why I deserve to be in here.

_Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage;_

_Minds innocent and quiet take that for a hermitage._

_If I have freedom in my love, and in my soul am free,_

_Angels alone, that soar above, enjoy such liberty._

My mind may not be innocent but at least it’s quiet now. The farce is over. The truth is out. This little room on the floor between floors will be my hermitage, where they flog me daily for the good of my soul. Here I will lie like a hidden splinter trapped between the layers of my old man’s skin, a splinter he can neither remove nor ignore.


	9. Chapter 9

Little kids believe the strangest things. When I was very small, I thought my old man was every child’s father. Where did that notion come from? Everything belonged to him, so presumably it made sense to my tender mind that all the children in the world belonged to him too. Out of all those children, I alone had been chosen to live with him and call him Daddy. All the others, my infant logic reasoned, had been farmed out to new homes, as if they were a gigantic litter of puppies. In those days I thought adults had always been adults and children would always be children. I didn’t understand about death.

I must have been three, or four at most, when I asked him, “Daddy, why am I the only one?”

He laughed. I don’t remember getting any other answer. Just that laugh. He probably wasn’t giving me his full attention. His mind was always on other things. If he did give me an answer, it can’t have been a satisfactory one, because I took my question to my fake dad, the one who always had time for me. “Veld, why did Daddy give the others away and keep me?”

Why would my old man choose me, out of all the children in the world, when I was so weak and full of flaws?

I don’t remember Veld’s answer either. All I remember is the look on his face. Shocked. Appalled. Didn’t I know this was something we did not talk about? Bad boy! Never ask again.

That can’t have been what he was actually thinking, of course. He was probably just a little taken aback. My question was rather cryptic; no doubt he was trying to figure out what on earth I was talking about; what new bizarre idea I’d taken into my head.

That look on his face filled me with shame. And fear. Again. Thinking weak thoughts was bad enough. Saying them out loud was just stupid. If Daddy had chosen me, it stood to reason he could just as easily un-choose me. He could send me away any time he liked and pick some other, cleverer, braver little boy to be the lucky one.

How old was I when I grew out of that fear? I can’t remember. In any case, I had plenty with which to replace it.

My fears were both irrational and fantastic. Monsters under the bed; ghostly footsteps on the staircase; the long slimy arm of the toilet creature lurking just around the u-bend, waiting for me to sit down so it could reach up, grab my bare bottom and drag me down to particularly disgusting death. My timidity exasperated my old man. He wanted a son like himself, bold, assertive, confident. Dad’s lack of imagination is one of his strengths: he never stops to wonder if he might be wrong. When he showed me the architectural blueprints of the tower he was building for us to live in, he wanted me to feel the thrill of its dizzying height and power. I wanted him to show me the escape route. What if we’re attacked by aliens from outer space, Daddy? He said I must be soft in the head. _Since you want an escape route, I’ll build one_, he said. _For you, son. Not for me. Winners don’t need escape routes. _

In our garden lived a tortoise that was my friend. It ate strawberries from my hand. I liked pretending I was a tortoise, trundling after it on all fours as it ambled across the grass. Heidegger’s chauffeur drove over it one night by accident, not seeing, I suppose (I’ll give the murderer the benefit of the doubt), that Mr Tortoise was fast asleep on the warm tarmac. Dad promised me he’d get me another one. Not long after, he came home from work with a stuffed plush Adamantoise big enough to use as a bed. I said, _but it’s not alive, I want an alive one_, and he said, _this is better, isn’t it? If it’s not alive, it can’t die._

All these memories are from the time before we moved to the tower, when we still lived in the house with the big garden out back. The floor in the front hallway of that house was tiled black and white like a chessboard; the hallway was big and cool and echoing, and the maids polished that floor until it reflected the staircase and the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. It was like a faery pool. I had never seen a faery pool but I knew about them from my nanny’s bedtime stories. Pilgrims stumbled across them in the wild woods. The waters were cold and infinitely deep. If you walked on the white tiles you could cross safely, but if you put your foot on a black tile you would sink down to the kingdom of the sahagin and the waters would close over your head. Your loved ones would search for you in vain.

The first time I saw Tseng he was walking across that polished floor, following behind Veld who, I presume, had come to the house for some meeting with my father. He wore a suit like Veld’s in the same way that I wore suits like my father’s whenever I had to go somewhere and have my photo taken, but his suit didn’t deceive me. I could tell by the way he walked that he was a thing from the wild woods. A cat spirit, disguised in a borrowed skin, skillfully eluding danger. He knew exactly where to place his feet, and I understood, when I saw this, that something magical had come into my life at last. I had not dreamed and hoped in vain.

At that time I was suffering from a recurring nightmare in which I was mounted on a crazy machine that had run amok. Its feet were claws, its arms were spinning blades. It lurched from side to side, heading inexorably for a stone wall against which it was going to crush me, although I always woke up screaming before we reached that point. Dad was away from home more often than not, so it was some time (weeks? Months?) before the night came when he was woken from his sleep by a small boy screaming the house down. In his rage he made the entire household get out of bed and assemble in the foyer, my nannies and the housemaids and gardeners and even the kind cook who patiently made the bland meals which were all this picky eater would eat, and he shouted at them for what felt like hours, demanding _how long has this been going on_? and threatening to dismiss them all for gross incompetence. I couldn’t stop crying. _Look at him,_ Dad shouted. _You useless sacks of shit, you’re supposed to be taking care of him._

Whenever Dad started shouting, people started disappearing from my life. I didn’t want my nannies or the maids or the kind cook to disappear. Since I’d caused the problem, I had to solve it. The solution was obvious: if I never slept again, I couldn’t have a nightmare, could I?

I stayed awake all the next night. Tseng was the one who found me unconscious under the oak tree the following morning. I’d dropped off in mid-swing. Without any fuss he put me over his shoulder and carried me upstairs to nanny, who put me to bed. He seemed like a grown-up to me, although he can’t have been more than fourteen. The next time I saw him, he asked me what the problem was. I told him my dream. He’s the only person I’ve ever told. After I told him, I never had that nightmare again. I was sure he’d dispelled it with his wild magic. I was five years old.

I had never stopped asking for a live pet, and on my sixth birthday, or maybe my seventh, Dad gave me a blackbird in a cage. What kind of metaphor, or rebuke, was that bird intended to represent? What sort of father gives a bird in a cage to a child in a cage? I felt my bird’s longing for freedom all the more keenly because I was not - not yet - conscious that I longed for the same thing. Tseng was the only person who realised something was bothering me. Waiting until we had a moment alone, he crouched down so that our eyes were level and asked me, “What’s wrong, Rufus?” Instead of denying that anything was wrong, as I would have done with anyone else, I told him.

“Do you want to let it go?”

I nodded.

All the windows in my apartment in this building were - are - sealed shut. Tseng took off his jacket (revealing the guns in their black leather holsters! Thrill!), opened the cage (my small fingers had been unable to manage the latch), caught the bird in his hands (very gently), and wrapped it up in his jacket, concealing it completely. He took my hand and we rode in the lift down to the third floor, where there was a stockroom with a sash window. He closed the stockroom door behind us, opened the window, unrolled his jacket, picked up the ruffled bird and put it into my waiting hands, saying, “You should be the one to do this.”

For a few moments it sat there, nested in my cupped palms, panting. I felt its beating heart, its fear, its longing.

“Let it go,” said Tseng.

I threw my hands up and out, and the bird jumped into the air and flew away through the open window, into the blue sky. The sky around Midgar was still blue more often than not, in those days.

Tseng must have seen himself in that bird too. That was why he helped me to free it. In the moment when the bird took flight, we three were one: the bird, Tseng, and I. It rejoiced in its wings and we rejoiced with it. In that moment, we were all free.

As soon as it was out of sight I remembered it had been my father’s gift. What would I say if he asked me where my bird was? How furious would he be when he found out I’d let it go? Would he call me a softy? A simpleton? A loser?

As if I’d spoken those fears aloud, Tseng said, “It was your bird, after all. You could do what you liked with it.” He smiled at me, one conspirator to another. “We’ll tell your father it died, shall we?”

Dad never did ask. He probably forgot all about it.


	10. Chapter 10

My door’s opening. Either Tseng is back or -

Mealtime.

Here with my tray comes Tys, our Reno-lite. If memory serves, his hair was not so bright a shade of red when first he joined us. Imitation: the sincerest form of flattery. No doubt this Redhead Number Two thought he was a tough guy when he rang with that bike gang out in the badlands. Then he came up against the real tough guys. The baddest bad guys. I wonder if he ever suffers from imposter syndrome -

Why am I lying on the floor? I was sitting in that chair a moment ago. Where did all this pain come from?

Get up, Rufus -

I can’t. Can’t move. Limbs refusing. Every muscle clenching. Pain: feels like sparks twanging the electrical wires of my nerves.

Tys looking down on me, mag-rod in hand, big grin on face. He must have put some voltage into my metal chair. Sneak attack. A shock to the system. To coin a phrase. And I didn’t even have to provoke him into it.

I’m wet.

Blood?

No. I’ve pissed myself. Oh dear.

It’s just as well I’m currently incapable of speech. I’d only aggravate the situation. Currently. I see what you did there, Rufus, you wag, you.

Door closing. Farewell, Tys.

Who is going to clean up this mess, Rufus? Why, I am, of course

I hope this paralysis isn’t permanent. I don’t want Tseng to see me like this.

* * *

I had to use all my drinking water to launder my trousers and wash the floor. I’ve eaten my food because he regards an uneaten meal as an opportunity for a lecture. Now there’s nothing to do but lie on my bed, and wait, and think.

Of all my friends, Alex was the one who made the greatest effort to get to know Mercedes. Often that autumn, after tea on weekdays or on Sunday afternoons, the three of us would sit together under the beech trees planning the lives we would live once we’d left Penscombe. Alex was an only child of older parents, like me. Unlike me, Alex hadn’t been brought into being for no other purpose than to take over his family’s sweets empire. Also unlike me, his mother was still alive. Alex’s dream was to become a writer. His parents were almost as enthusiastic about this dream as he was. They supported him in everything he did.

My own plans were rather less coherent. Go to university, study something that excited me: history, psychology, philosophy. Acquire some useful skills. Get a job somewhere that wasn’t Shinra. Prove to everybody, and especially my old man, that I could make it on my own.

Alex said, “You could work for my Dad, he’d love to have you.”

“How would that be any different from working for his own dad?” said Mercedes.

Mercedes, my teller of truth to power. She poured cold water over my dreams of becoming a self-made man. “Rufe, I understand why you want people to judge you on your own merits, but you have to be realistic. Wherever you go, whatever you do, you’ll always be ‘Rufus Shinra’.”

The scare quotes were, I felt, a little unnecessary. I knew she was right, but I didn’t want her to be. I needed to believe that alternative futures were possible for me, and I needed her to believe in them too.

“I can change my name,” I said, pathetically.

She laughed at me. “If _Midgar Life_ ran a poll on the most famous face on the planet, it’d be a toss-up between yours and Sephiroth. What are you going to do? Have life-altering plastic surgery to make yourself unrecognisable?”

Like our imaginary friend Don Dinero, from a game that was beginning to run out of steam.

December came and school broke up for the Winterfest holidays. I had hoped Mercedes and I would be able to see each other in Midgar, but she told me her family was heading back to Forland and then she and Pia were spending a fortnight in Cosmo Canyon. I tried to make a joke out of it - “What’s Cosmo Canyon got that I haven’t got?” - to hide the fact that I was really hurt. Didn’t she want to spend time with me outside of school? Was she only using me to alleviate the boredom of Penscombe?

“Why don’t you come to the Canyon?” she said. “Oh, Rufe, do come. You would love it, I know you would. They teach you to see the world differently there. It would change your whole life. It’s changed mine.”

Never in a million years was that going to happen. Dad would rather shoot himself in the foot than go anywhere near a hippie paradise like Cosmo Canyon. In his heart he wants to burn it to the ground. Maybe he will. Maybe it’s next on his list. As soon as Bugenhagen gives him half an excuse.

“When I’m sixteen,” I told her, “I’ll have my own money and I’ll be able to do what I like.“

My door’s opening again. Tseng! Be still my beating heart. I think I won’t get up from this narrow bed. The trousers I scrubbed with the last of my drinking water are spread on the floor to dry. He looks at them, then at me. “What happened?”

“Wankstains.”

As if I would, with that big two-way mirror staring at me twenty-four seven.

His expression doesn’t change. Water off a duck’s back. He pulls a chair over, sits on it. “Use the bag for your laundry. Don’t do it yourself.”

Yes, just what I want: every single Turk in the department laughing at me for pissing my trousers. They probably know anyway. I’m sure Tys enjoyed telling them.

Let’s change the subject. “When is my new bed coming?”

“It’s on order. It’s complicated.”

He means that if the Turks tried to bring a brand new bed from Les Marroniers up in the lift, people would start to wonder what was going on. A bed is not a small thing.

“Rufus, I’m running behind schedule today - “

This is becoming a constant refrain. Is our Head of Department having problems managing his new workload?

“ - So if we could get on, that would be helpful. I’d like to ask you about the second flyer incident you mentioned the other day.”

“Yes?”

“Am I right in thinking it took place three days after the beginning of the winter term? On the seventh of January, to be precise.”

“Yes, that sounds right.”

“We’ve been going over the Penscombe incident log from the year 2000. Three days after school re-opened following the Winterfest break, on the morning of January the seventh, at 11:47 am, someone set off the alarm outside the school’s boiler room. No one was ever found to be responsible. Dr Wiley put it down to a prank. It seems the fifth form were sitting a chemistry test at that time. You should have been in maths class, but you weren’t there, because approximately twenty minutes before the alarm went off, a girl in the form below you named Poppy Swinson came to your classroom door with a verbal message that Dr Wiley wanted to see you. Miss Forbes recorded it in her attendance book. When the alarm went off, everybody inside the school buildings evacuated onto the Sward as per drill, including Poppy Swinson, but you and Mercedes Gandara were late to the muster - almost a quarter of an hour late. When your housemaster asked you to explain the delay, you told him you and Mercedes had been smoking behind the kitchen bins. Do you agree that everything I’ve said so far is correct?”

“Yes.”

“Are you the one who pulled the alarm?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I think you know why. Go on, tell me what you think happened.”

“You pulled the alarm so that you could go into the boiler room without being seen.”

“Correct. And why did I want to go into the boiler room?”

“To burn something. The second set of Avalanche flyers, presumably.” He’s looking very pleased with himself.

“That’s three for three, Tseng. Keep going.”

“How does Poppy Swinson come into it?”

“She’s the one who found the flyers. In the girls’ loo.”

“Why did she come to you instead of going straight to Wiley? Was she a friend of yours?”

“She was doing me a favour. This may come as a surprise to you, Tseng, but I was quite popular at Penscombe. Everybody knew I’d come _this_ close to getting pulled after the previous incident. Poppy - I suppose - She may have - uh -” Oh how I dislike having to say this - “She may have had a bit of a crush on me - “

He’s not trying very hard to rein in that smile, curse him. He really shouldn’t derive so much pleasure from watching me squirm.

Let’s move along. “First Poppy tried to get rid of the flyers by herself. She tried to flush them down the loo, but all she did was block it. Then she came to get me. Rather quick thinking on her part, I hope you’ll agree. Normally I wouldn’t have been allowed to leave the classroom without a written pass request, but Forbes was busy helping Johnny and I’d finished all the work she’d set, so she let me go.”

“These new flyers were the same as the previous ones?”

“More or less. They had a new picture. A baby with a balloon head. There must have been several hundred of them. I helped Poppy unplug the toilet – “

“The girls’ toilet?”

“I had no time to care about that. My future at Penscombe was at stake. If any teacher or prefect had seen those flyers, it would have been the end for me. After I unplugged the toilet, I went back into the corridor to see if I could find something to put all the flyers in – to carry them, to hide them – and when I was looking around, I saw Mercedes.”

My girl was acting as suspicious as it is possible for a human being to act, lurking at the foot of the stairwell, peeping round the corner, giving a guilty start when she realised I could see her. The worst ninja ever. She was wearing her art smock. Was she bunking off class? She looked ready to turn tail and run. “Mercedes”, I hissed at her, “Get over here.”

“There was nobody else in the corridor?” says Tseng.

“I don’t think so. It was lesson time, fortuitously. No teachers were around, anyway.”

“Nobody else saw you?”

“I don’t think so. Mercedes took off her art smock and we piled all the flyers into it and made a bundle. I told Poppy to go check the other toilets to see if there were any more. As soon as she ran off, Mercedes told me there weren’t any more.”

“She confessed to you?”

“Not at that point, no. She said she’d already checked the other loos. I told her I was going to burn them, and she said she’d come with me. We went down to the boiler room together. I pulled the alarm to get the janitor to leave.”

He’s nodding as if he approves; as if it were what he’d have done himself. “Resourceful.”

“Thank you. We were both given three demerits for being late to the fire drill muster and detentions for smoking, but it was a small price to pay.”

“Did anybody see you go down to the boiler room?”

If I tell him one of the kitchen porters saw us, he won’t rest until he’s tracked the poor man down. And what did the porter see, after all? A boy and a girl sneaking through the back hallways when they should have been in lessons. It won’t have been the first time. If that porter guessed who pulled the alarm, he never said anything, so…. Let’s leave him in peace. “No one saw us, Tseng. I was careful.”

“Were there any other flyers?”

“Not in the toilets. Mercedes had some in her room. She told me later.”

“When did she tell you?”

“I’m coming to that - “

His phone’s buzzing. Someone summoning him elsewhere. Dad, probably.

He puts the phone away. “I have to go, Rufus.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll need to speak to Poppy Swinson.”

“Don’t do that. Come on, Tseng, please. I don’t want you frightening her. She won’t be able to tell you anything I haven’t told you already.”

“Where did Mercedes get the flyers from? Who gave them to her?”

“You know.”

“Avalanche - “

“I mean you know specifically where they were printed. I’m telling you, you know. Think back to my fifteenth birthday - “

His phone’s ringing again.

“Yes,” he says, “I’m on my way. Now.” 

He gets to his feet, puts the chair back where it belongs. “I’ll be back when I’ve dealt with this.”

“I’ll be right here waiting for you, Commander.”

And he’s gone.

Poor little Poppy Swinson. Nice girl. Sweet. I hope he realises it would be a waste of his time talking to her. She’d die of fright. And she’s been so good about keeping her mouth shut. I don’t want her to start wishing she hadn’t helped me.

There’s something else I didn’t tell Tseng. We didn’t manage to burn all the flyers. At least one of them left the toilets in somebody’s pocket before Poppy got there. I don’t know who took it, but I know they weren’t my enemy, because if they were, they’d have shown it to Wiley, who would in turn have been obliged to inform Veld. After a couple of days that lone surviving flyer found its way into Alex’s hands. He showed it to me and then destroyed it. For a while I lived in fear that a rumour of the flyers’ existence would find its way to Wiley’s ears. I was so angry with Mercedes I couldn’t bring myself to talk to her.

She admitted her guilt to me. But not straight away. When we were down in the boiler room together she suddenly clutched my arm - I was busy feeding those bloody flyers into the flames - and she said, “Please, please don’t mention this to anyone.”

“Do you think I’m insane?” I was already on edge, having broken more school rules in one hour than in all my previous Penscombe days put together. My face was hot from the fire. “If Veld or my Dad find out about this, I’m done here. I’m gone.”

Mercedes started to cry. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“What are _you_ sorry for? I’m lucky it was you in the corridor and not somebody who’d dob on me to Wiley. That’s all of them. Come on, we’d better hurry.”

She held my hand as we ran up the stairs, only letting go when we stepped outside.

For the cigarettes I hadn’t smoked I had to do an hour’s detention after tea, every day for five days, in Braska’s study, he being the duty master for that week. Mercedes served her detention in Minerva House. I diligently worked on my prep under his stern eye, and when the hour was up I headed back to Fortitude House, so deep in thought that I didn’t hear the footsteps running up the path until they were almost upon me. I turned. Mercedes, flushed and breathless, gasped, “Rufe, wait.”

“I need to take Dark Nation for a walk. Do you want to come with?”

She put her hand on my arm and looked into my eyes. “It was me, Rufe. I’m the one who put the flyers in the loos. I’m so sorry.”

I laughed. I actually laughed. Of course she hadn’t. What a ridiculous lie. “That’s not funny, Mercedes. Don’t joke about it.”

“I’m not joking. I did it. It was me.”

Dad’s petty betrayals were something I’d grown used to. His constant belittling of me hardly hurt me any more. But this? This was different. This was a friend I trusted. A girl with whom I’d shared my deepest hopes and dreams. I’d thought Mercedes was on my side. I’d believed we were friends. More; soul-mates. How could she not know what Penscombe meant to me? Hadn’t she been listening? Didn’t she know me at all?

“I’m so sorry, Rufe - “

I had to get away from her. I ran into Fortitude House to get Dark Nation. When we came out, Mercedes was still standing there. I couldn’t talk to her; I couldn’t look at her. I ran in the opposite direction. Together Dark Nation and I raced round and round the cricket pitch, thoughts of vengeance burning in my mind. If I wanted to, I could hurt her more than she had hurt me. I could teach her what happened to people who betrayed me. If I handed her over to Veld, he’d show her. And why shouldn’t I? She deserved to suffer.

But when I tried to picture myself turning her in, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t betray her. I couldn’t hurt her. I _loved_ her.

That is, I naively interpreted the tepid fascination she exerted over me as some kind of mad grand passion. I was fourteen; what did I know? I really thought Mercedes Gandara was the love of my life. She had saved me - or so I imagined - from the one prospect even more frightening than losing Penscombe. She was my armour against those fears. She made me happy. She made me normal. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t bear it.

She was still waiting when I returned from my run. “Rufe, please, I’m sorry - “

“I can’t talk to you right now.”

“I’m so sorry I’ve hurt you. You can’t imagine how much I wish I hadn’t done it. I don’t know why I did. It was such a stupid thing to do. I should never have listened to him -“

The dinner bell started ringing. “You’d better go,” I said.

She gave me a long, desperately pleading look, then ran off down the hill towards Commons. I put Dark Nation away and followed. Neither of us received a warm welcome from our respective tables. In the summer term, the house with the most merit points is awarded an extra day’s holiday at the end of the Long Exeat, so we take demerits seriously at Penscombe.

After dinner I managed to catch a word with little Poppy. “You really helped me today,” I said. “Well done for keeping schtum.”

Being hero-worshipped has its advantages. “I’ll never breathe a word, Rufus, I swear. They’ll have to kill me first.”

Actually, now I think of it, Mercedes never looked at me with the kind of adoration I saw shining out of Poppy’s big round eyes. Probably because she knew me too well.

For the rest of that week, we only saw each other in Dr Braska’s class. He made us sit on opposite sides of the room. She cast imploring, penitent glances my way, which I pretended not to see. Outside of history class, I avoided her - but not, as one might think, because I was furiously angry with her, although I was. I knew I was going to forgive her. In a way, I already had. I just didn’t want her to think she could walk all over me.

I was also beginning to realise that I needed to do more than forgive her. I couldn’t simply turn a blind eye to the fact that my girl had - foolishly, recklessly, naively - involved herself with an anti-Shinra group. This wasn’t something that would blow over if I kept my fingers crossed. None of our fellow students believed Mercedes and I had been innocently smoking a friendly cigarette together behind the kitchens. Rumours had started flying, all of them untrue since we had never so much as kissed, but what did that matter? Once those rumours reached Veld’s ears - and rumours _always_ found their way to his ears - he would guess the nature of my feelings for Mercedes, which I had been trying so hard to conceal from him. He would start his investigations, and then it would be only a matter of time before he uncovered the truth about the flyers. Mercedes wasn’t clever enough to cover her tracks. He would catch her. And when that happened, all my begging, all my pleading, would not save her. As inevitably as night follows day, I would lose both Penscombe and Mercedes.

I couldn’t let that happen. What I needed was something to trade in return for my girl. Something I could use to bargain with Veld. A quid pro quo. A deflection. Mercedes herself was of no interest to him. All he really cared about was the information she might be able to provide. If someone else – me, for instance - could get hold of that information and pass it on to him, her name would never need to be mentioned. Veld could shut down her little eco-warrior group, the danger to us both would be eliminated, we could stay at Penscombe, and her part in the business would remain our secret forever.

That’s really how it all began; that’s when it began for real.

My plan was to go undercover. Be the Turk I’d played at being. Pretend sympathy for her cause, infiltrate them, and hand them over to the Chief. And if at the back of my mind I was thinking, _Tseng will be so impressed when I pull this off…_

Would he believe me if I told him that?

Don’t be stupid, Rufus. You’ll never tell him. He’d only accuse you of childishness. Forgetting that you were, in fact, a child.

At the end of our week of detentions, with my plan fully formed in my mind, I passed Mercedes a note in history class: _Meet me at the cricket pavilion after tea. _She was waiting for me on the steps when I arrived. Her maths textbook, our excuse for being together, was on her lap. I sat down beside her, but not too close.

“Do you believe now that I’m sorry?” she said.

“I don’t know. Those leaflets weren’t just a prank. Do you really believe all that guff?”

She looked… Can someone look simultaneously apologetic and defiant? As if she didn’t want to hurt me, but the truth must be told. “Facts are facts. Maybe it’s not all true, but enough of it is. You know it is. You told me yourself it bothers you.”

“How is putting leaflets in Penscombe’s loos going to help? Do you seriously think any of the kids here actually care about saving the planet?”

“I think some must do,” she said with great earnestness. “If I can touch the heart of even one person, that’s better than nothing. I’ve touched your heart, haven’t I?” She put her hand on my arm, gazed up beguilingly.

“Have you thought about what will happen to you if you’re caught? Getting expelled would be the least of your worries.”

She pulled away from me, frowning. “You’d set your assassins on me?” She sounded offended, even a little shocked, as if this most obvious of eventualities had never before occurred to her.

I normally have very little patience for fools, but somehow, Mercedes’ stupidity roused my latent chivalrous instincts. This girl needed me to protect her! “I don’t have a say in it, Mercedes. I don’t have a say in anything. Don’t you understand that by now?”

She tossed her head. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t care. At least I’d die for a cause I believe in. Better than this stupid pointless life, where nothing I do matters.”

“What about your art?”

She snorted. “My art is pants and you know it. You have a good eye. But what does someone like me need talent for anyway? I have a rich daddy. If I can’t find a gallery willing to show my work, Daddy will buy me a gallery of my own. If the critics hate my paintings, Mummy will talk all her friends into buying one. I bet President Shinra would just love a Mercedes Gandara original to hang on the wall of his fourth guest bathroom at his second ski chalet in Icicle Inn.”

She was getting into her stride now. “It doesn’t matter if I’m bagged from Penscombe. Daddy will do what he always does and pay some other school to take me. It doesn’t matter if I don’t pass any of my exams. It doesn’t matter if I never do a stroke of work in my life. There will always be a seat on the company board for me, with a big fat salary to go with it. Nobody will expect me to actually attend a board meeting. I have nothing to contribute, anyway.”

Before she’d started talking, I’d felt in command of the moral high ground, but as the words poured from her mouth I could feel it slipping away from me.

“Nothing I do matters, Rufe. It never has and it never will. All my family asks of me is to stand around looking pretty. A vase could do that. An _empty_ vase could do that. But I’m _not_ empty,” she exclaimed, clasping her hands to her chest. “I want my life to _matter_. I want the world to be a better place because I lived. I want to do some good before I die. I don’t think that’s crazy.”

If someone had asked me then to explain why she felt so important to me, I couldn’t have told them. I hardly knew myself. I didn’t want to know, that’s the truth. Far too frightening. And yet there were aspects of her I _did_ desire. Her energy, her commitment to something bigger and more important than herself, and her fearlessness - above all, her fearlessness. These things excited me. I wanted to feel them, too.

“How long have you been doing this?” I asked her. “Were you spreading anti-Shinra propaganda at your last school too? Is that why you were expelled?”

She looked me straight in the eye and said, “No, I was expelled because I was caught shagging the rugby captain.”

It embarrasses me to remember how my jaw hung open.

She and I had never talked about sex before, not like this, not about ourselves, ourselves specifically, doing it. And now she’d turned around and whacked me in the face with this enormous red herring. My thoughts went into a tailspin. Caught _shagging_ the rugby captain? Were all the rumours about her true, then? Or was she lying to me? But why would she lie? To shock me? And really – the _rugby_ captain? I was our under-fifteen rugby captain. Wasn’t that a bit of a coincidence? But if she was lying, then I didn’t understand. What message was she trying to send me? I could read code, but I couldn’t read Mercedes. I thought she knew our love was a pure meeting of minds. Was she trying to tell me she wanted to shag _me_? And what about me, did I want to shag her? Or any girl at all, even? My uncertainty on this point felt like something I needed to grow out of.

While I was wrestling with these confused thoughts - which, let’s admit it, had nothing to do with why I’d asked her to meet me. Or perhaps everything? - Anyway, she kept talking. Mercedes was a champion talker. She had no filter at all.

She said, “You whinge on and on about wanting to break free from your father, but what do you do about it? Nothing! At least I’m doing _something_. I mean maybe it is all stupid and pointless but at least I’m _trying._ But you - you’re nothing but hot air and dreams. Fifty years from now you’ll still be wearing your father’s suits and waffling on about wanting to be your own man, and your kids will despise you as much as you despise him.

“Yes, Rufe, I _am _anti-Shinra. It’s true. Anti-Shinra and proud! But I’m not anti-_you_, Rufe. I’m pro-you. You’re the one person in this dump who’s worth the time of day. Meeting you has taught me to hate Shinra Inc even more. It’s personal to me now. They’re hurting someone I care about. I hate the way your father keeps trying to force you to be someone you’re not. That company’s like a prison you can’t escape. I _hate_ seeing you live in fear.

“Oh, Rufe, don’t you get it? We’re on _your_ side. You’re a victim of Shinra too. You’ll never be free until Shinra Inc is destroyed, can’t you see that?”

In all the turmoil of my thoughts I’d almost forgotten to watch for my cue. This was it. I musn’t miss it. “You’re right,” I said.

“I know I am.”

“I’m sick of living like this. I want to do something. I want to fight back.”

“You have to,” she urged me. “Not just for yourself. For the world.”

“I’ve been thinking about it all week. Mercedes, I want to join you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tys is BC Turk "Rod". He was the leader of a motorcycle gang who joined the Turks after trying to steal the Hardy-Daytona from the Shinra showroom and being stopped by Reno. His ambition is to be 'the strongest'. 
> 
> If anyone hasn't guessed yet, Penscombe is an amalgam of various boarding schools I know.


	11. Chapter 11

“Was it really that easy, Rufus? All you had to do was ask and you were in?”

Tseng’s being more receptive to the truth than I anticipated. Then again, I’ve edited the story for his consumption. There are some things he doesn’t need to know, and the intricate details of my convoluted sentimental education are one of them. _Shagging the rugby captain. _I can still see her pretty mouth pronouncing those words. It’s nothing to do with Avalanche. Although…

“Rufus?”

“No, of course it wasn’t. It’s not as if they were the Penscombe chess club.”

Ah, he likes that. He’s actually smiling. I’ve made him smile. I wish I could take all the credit for it, but honesty compels me to add, “As Mercedes once said.”

“Did she? Weren’t you the captain of the Penscombe chess club?”

“Junior captain, yes. And I’ll have you know I earned that post entirely on merit. I was our best player.”

Really, it’s very pleasant to sit here conversing like this. If I close my eyes I can almost pretend we’re sitting at one of those outdoor tables with the gingham tablecloths at that place where they like to hang out, the Goblin’s Bar on Loveless Avenue. I’ve never been there. I’ve only been driven past it. He and I could be two friends sharing a drink, shooting the breeze, reminiscing. Has he forgotten he’s interrogating me? Or is this all part of his technique?

He says, “What point was she trying to make?”

“Oh, you know. That they didn’t take just anyone. If someone wanted to join her gang, they had to prove themselves worthy first. Even if their name was Rufus Shinra.”

“Especially if his name was Rufus Shinra, I would have thought.”

“Logic was never Mercedes’ strong suit.”

“Prove themselves to whom?” asks Tseng.

“The Leader. That’s what Mercedes always called him.”

“Fuhito?”

“Yes.”

“And those flyers were her way of proving her worth?”

“She told me The Leader had asked her to spread them around Penscombe.”

“They were recruitment flyers. Hook the curious. Cast the net wide and see what gets dragged in.”

He doesn’t need to give me that look. I get it. What they dragged in was me. I am the big fish that let itself be hooked. A dangerously big fish, the kind that capsizes the boat when you try to haul your prize aboard. A different, more prudent Leader would have said No straight away and not kept his acolytes stringing me along while he took his time deciding whether or not he had a use for me. But Fuhito likes to live recklessly.

“Who else at Penscombe was involved?”

“Aside from the ones you already know about, no one that I’m aware of. As far as I knew it was just Mercedes and me. If it hadn’t been for the flyers, which she couldn’t have printed by herself, I might have suspected her top-secret anti-capitalism grassroots movement was entirely a figment of her imagination. She had a very lively imagination.”

“A shame she wasted it.” He’s opening his notebook; he marked the place. “You wrote a cheque for one thousand gil to Pia Gandara’s Fly Free Foundation on January the twenty-eighth that year, and a second for the same amount on February the twenty-second.”

“My access to funds was limited until I turned sixteen.”

“Both dates fell during school exeats.”

“I didn’t have a chequebook at Penscombe. No need.”

“The twenty-second… You went to the cinema with Mercedes that evening…”

Oh my dear god. What’s the code for _that_ scribbled in his notebook?

“That’s also the evening we raided the Blue Griffin pub. On a tip-off.”

“I know.”

He’s closing the notebook. “Rufus, if these cheques you wrote were intended to prove your disestablishmentarian credentials to your girlfriend, then you must have known about Pia’s involvement right from the start.”

Ah. _Not_ the question I was expecting him to ask. He’s circling back; he thinks he’s missed something. “I didn’t know about Pia until I wrote the first cheque. To tell you the truth, Tseng, the reason I wrote that cheque was to make Mercedes to give me a name, some clue I could use to start my investigations. She was keeping me on a very strict need-to-know basis. I was honestly rather shocked when she told me to make it out to Pia’s foundation. I thought Pia would have had more sense. She was supposed to be the brains in that family.”

“You mean, you were surprised that an intelligent person would join Avalanche, because at that point you had no intention of joining Avalanche yourself?”

“Can we be clear about something? I have never been a member of Avalanche. I worked with them. I collaborated with them. You could say I had a contract with them. I never _belonged_ to them.”

His hand makes a little brushing gesture, not much more than a twitch. These distinctions, so important to me, mean nothing to him. Working with Avalanche, being Avalanche, what’s the difference?

He says, “That’s really how this started? Your plan was to infiltrate and expose their organization in order to save Mercedes Gandara?”

“More or less, yes.”

He looks doubtful. I hope he’s not going to laugh. Pull the other one, Rufus, it’s got bells on. Please don’t laugh at me, Tseng. I’m being as honest as I can.

“She really meant that much to you?”

“You find that hard to believe?” 

I’m not just parrying his question. He won’t answer, of course, but I’d really like to know. In his mind, which of us is the sticking point: me, or Mercedes? He hardly knew her. A pretty, capricious, difficult girl, and entirely wrong for me… But who is he to judge my choice in women? How was Mercedes any different from his own slum angel?

Or does he think me incapable of such feelings?

Well, and what if he does? That shouldn’t bother me. It’s exactly what I want him to think. To take offense would be ridiculous.

“Let’s say I do believe you,” he says. “Nevertheless, at some point your motives changed. You went from wanting to infiltrate and expose them to supporting and collaborating with them. Something must have happened to change your mind.”

“Yes.”

“Was it a specific incident, or a gradual process?”

“I’d say it was a gradual process leading up to a specific incident.”

“What was the specific incident?”

“Does that really matter?”

He sits back in his chair, studying me thoughtfully, weaving his fingers together. His are what my old drama teacher would call _speaking hands_. Lean, sinewy fingers. Very strong. He could push the core from an apple with his thumbs. Or the – no, let’s not get carried away. Look how tawny his skin is against the pristine white of his shirtcuffs. Look at the blue veins; the hard knuckles. The pale pink nails meticulously manicured. Is that vanity? Or the good workman taking care of his tools? His hands move like poetry. A measured flow. Does he have any idea how much they say? They don’t fly about in the air or gesticulate wildly. Their movements are subtle, nuanced… but not perhaps as entirely under his control as he imagines -

“You’re the one who tipped us off about the Blue Griffin, aren’t you?” he says.

Did he know this when he walked in here, or has he just now come to the realisation? “Yes.”

“I think – “ he’s speaking slowly, either for emphasis or because he’s figuring it out as he goes – “You were also the one who warned them we were coming. Am I wrong?”

“You’re not wrong.”

“You set us up to raid your girlfriend’s terrorist cell, and then you made sure the raid would fail.”

“Yes.”

“Was it Mercedes who told you about the Blue Griffin cell?”

“Mercedes told me nothing, Tseng. As far as she was concerned, my sole job was to write cheques. No, wait, that’s not entirely true. She did once let slip that she met up with this group - her cell, as you call it - whenever she was in Midgar. But she wouldn’t tell me who else was in it or where they met or when. I was quite emphatically _not_ invited.”

“If Mercedes didn’t tell you, who did?”

“I helped myself to the information.”

“You mean you spied on her?”

Is that a hint of disapproval I hear in his voice? She wouldn’t tell what I needed to know, so what else could I do? What would he have done? Complete the mission by whatever means necessary.

“How did you get the information, Rufus?”

“Nothing earth-shatteringly ingenious. It was the Saturday night of the short exeat, we’d gone to a party at Lola’s, Mercedes drank too much, I may have encouraged her. I played the gentleman and held her handbag while she chundered, and I took the opportunity to have a quick look through the diary on her PHS. She was terribly careless about locking it. All the dates were either school things or social events that I already knew about, except for one that had happened the previous exeat, and the one at the Blue Griffin during the long exeat in February. I drew the obvious conclusion.”

“Hmm.”

Is that all he’s going to say?

Fine, I’ll go on. “Getting the information was the easy part. The difficult bit was finding a way to pass it on to you. To your department, I mean. I couldn’t use my own phone. I couldn’t use any of our internal phones. I wrote it by hand, so I wouldn’t leave a digital trail, on toilet paper, so you couldn’t trace the source of it, and with my left hand, so you wouldn’t recognize the handwriting. I made an envelope out of toilet paper, addressed it to Veld, and slipped it in with all the other post in Wendy’s out-tray. By the time it finished passing through the mail room and found its way back up to your floor you would have no way of working out where it came from.”

“Hmm.” 

Oh come on. Don’t I deserve a little more than a _hmm_? The toilet-paper ruse was pretty clever if I do say so myself.

No, wait, he’s not finished. He’s giving me his _I’m-your-wise-old-uncle_ look. I fucking hate that look. Don’t say it, Tseng. We’ve been having such a nice talk. Don’t ruin it. Please don’t say it. No, fuck, he’s going to say it –

“You know, Rufus, it’s a shame you couldn’t have channeled all that ingenuity into something more constructive.”

Yeah, well, fuck you too, Tseng. You know what? I liked it better when you picked me up and threw me against the wall. I liked that Tseng better than the one you’re playing now. That was authentic; it came from your heart. You’ll never be able to forget that you did that to me, and I’ll always remember. There’ll be no pretending it didn’t happen. The scars you gave me will remain etched in my skin forever. So, you want to stare me down now? Bring it on. Let’s see who looks away first, shall we?

He blinked on purpose! He could have held out longer. Bastard! Won’t even give me the satisfaction of a duel.

“I led that raid, Rufus.”

“I know.”

“Why did you change your mind?”

“That’s my business.” Bloody hell, to think that a mere five minutes ago I was on the verge of telling him.

“What changed your mind, Rufus?”

I fold my arms.

“Was it because you realized Mercedes would get caught in the raid?”

Oh my fucking god, he’s so wildly far off base it’s almost funny. As if I would have let that happen. My original plan was to call Mercedes’ father and spin him some tale that would result in her immediate grounding. But I’m not telling him that _now_. Let him think what he likes.

I’ve got to be more careful. On no account must I let my guard down again, no matter how he lulls me. It’s all part of his technique. He knows how to ask me questions; he knows me well enough for that. And yet he doesn’t know me well enough to know the answers without asking, though he’s probably the person in the world who knows me best. Now there’s a lonely thought.

Well, so be it –

Wait, why is he getting up? “Are you leaving?”

“I haven’t got the time to sit here all day asking questions you won’t answer.”

“I don’t know why you even bother, when with a little thought you could figure the answers out for yourself.”

“I thought you might realise it’s in your own interests to cooperate.”

How can he say that? Really, _how?_ “I have been cooperating. When have I been uncooperative?”

What I say doesn’t matter. He’s made up his mind. He’s leaving. He’s pushing his chair under the table in a way that makes it clear he’s not intending to sit down again_. _“I have to go out, Rufus. I have an appointment.”

“Where?”

“That’s my business.”

Oh, oh, I see. I get it. This is ‘two can play at that game’. “Work?”

“Or pleasure.”

His eyes tell the truth. This isn’t just a game he’s playing with me. He’s tired of this. He _wants_ to go wherever it is he’s going. It’s better there than here. His imagination is running ahead of him. I’m not the only person in his thoughts.

He’s heading for the door. I’m sitting here like a lemon.

Fine. Fine. Suit yourself. Go. You think you can fool me into believing you have an actual life? You may not know me, but I know you. I know where you’re rushing off to. Your beloved slum angel. That’s why you’re in such an almighty hurry, you want to make sure nobody runs off with your beautiful girl while you’re wasting your time up here with me. Better hurry, Tseng, hurry hurry - she might find a new boyfriend now Zack Fair’s dead. Or as good as.

“I’ll be back tomorrow, Rufus…”

The door shuts behind him.

How unpleasantly strange it is, the way my anger deflates the moment he leaves the room. Am I a balloon? The intensity of this anger is a new development. I never used to feel so angry when I still had my freedom and friends and a life of my own. Well, hardly ever...

Anger? Is that what we’re calling it now?

Yes, let’s call it that. The real word’s far too ugly.


	12. Chapter 12

What changed my mind? How can he asked me that? How can he not remember?

School holidays were not something I normally looked forward to. I didn’t _dread_ going back to Midgar; there were people in the city I enjoyed seeing, and usually some interesting things to do. That year, though - the winter term of the fourth form - I was counting down the days to the long exeat and the glorious moment when, if all went right, my cunning espionage would bear fruit.

I longed desperately to know whether the raid was going ahead, but until I went back to Midgar I had no means of finding out. I couldn’t exactly phone Veld and ask. All I could do was wait, with mounting impatience, and see.

The nail-biting anxiety of waiting! So many things could go wrong. What if the raid didn’t happen? What if Veld had decided not to take my toilet-paper tip-off seriously? What if I’d made some stupid mistake; what if I’d got the address wrong? What if the event in the cellar of the Blue Griffin turned out to be something completely innocent, like an open mic night or a gathering of folk music fans? What if Mercedes had some weird out-of-character interest that I simply didn’t know about?

But oh, if it all went right, what glory! I could at last reveal myself as the mastermind who had set the wheels in motion. Veld would be amazed by my ingenuity and resourcefulness. Tseng would be so impressed! He might even say to me, _in another life, Rufus, you could have been a Turk._

If the raid happened, it would be on the Tuesday. Fortunately my fifteenth birthday fell on the Saturday, so there was plenty to keep me occupied while I waited for the _real_ big day. I had turned down Dad’s offer of a party; instead, Hughie, Johnny, Alex and I planned to fly to the Shinra Lodge in Healen on the Friday for a night of video-gaming (and some beer drinking and spliff smoking, but what Veld didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him). On the Saturday morning we would head for Icicle Inn, spend the day snowboarding, then back to Midgar for dinner at the Constellation, followed by a private viewing of _Materia Hunters: Goblin Island_, and a sleepover at Johnny’s house.

The low point of the entire weekend would be the family lunch on the Sunday afternoon, but there was no escaping that iron tradition. Anyway, I didn’t want to let Aunt Pansy down.

That was our plan. Veld approved it. Then Reno wrecked it.

I didn’t expect him to be the one sent to pick us up. He was supposed to be on secondment in Mideel. Even before the helicopter touched down, the very _moment_ I looked through the cockpit window and saw his red head in the pilot’s seat, I knew with dread certainty that something was going to go very wrong and I would not be able to stop it.

Half an hour into the flight, when we were approaching Midgar, he let the co-pilot take over and came back to talk to us. Even with the soundproofing he had to shout to make himself heard. “Hey, guys, I got an idea I wanna run past you. How about we make a little detour and turn this into a real party? You guys ever been to the Honeybee Inn?”

Hughie and Johnny’s eyes lit up. Lit up with the words SEX in huge flashing neon coloured lights. “Seriously?”

“Hey, it’s the champ’s big day, isn’t it?” He looked at me. I wished I could turn invisible. Or punch him. “Gotta help the man here celebrate in style. Fifteen today. Not the little Prez any more, yo.”

“But I told my mum we were going to Healen,” said Alex. “We already discussed this. All night’s _King’s Knight_, that’s what we agreed.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda lame, doncha think?” said Reno. “You guys are getting too old for video games. You oughta try having some real fun. If you catch my drift.”

“Alex is still fourteen,” said Hughie apologetically.

“Doesn’t matter. I can get you in.”

Hughie and Johnny were gazing at Reno as if he were a god among men.

“I don’t want to,” said Alex.

“Oh Shiva, don’t be such a fucking baby,” said Hughie.

“You have to grow up some time,” said Johnny.

Alex pointed at Dark Nation lying between my feet. “What about her? We can’t take her in, surely.”

“She’ll stay in the chopper if Rufe tells her to,” said Johnny. “She’s a good girl.”

I had a suspicion I knew why Alex didn’t want to go. I was terrified the same suspicion might fall on me.

Alex wasn’t going to yield. “We had a plan. We agreed to it. You can’t change it now. Rufe?”

My Turk was offering my friends the chance to see inside Midgar’s most famous whorehouse, plus whatever might follow once they’d passed through its hallowed portals. Thanks to Reno, my mundane, childish birthday plans had suddenly been transformed into potentially the most exciting night of their lives. How could I say that I didn’t want to go?

Alex turned to Reno. “You can take Hughie and Johnny to the Honeybee if they really want, but you should take Rufe and me to Healen first.”

“Uh-uh, no can do. Where the champ goes, I go. It’s all of you or none of you.”

Hughie and Johnny turned pleading eyes on me.

How could I refuse? What would my friends think? They might think I was scared. How gay would that be?

Thank you, Reno. Thanks for nothing.

I told Alex we could drop him off at his house first, but Alex said that if I was going, he’d go too.

We swooped under the plate like - like that swinging boat at the fair Tseng and I once rode together, because I was seven and Veld said I could only go on it if he came with me. I threw up over his shoes, and Dad, hearing the story later, said _weak stomach_ as if it were a character flaw. When Reno swooped under the plate I was convinced for a full half-minute that I was going to hurl all over again, and my friends would think it was because I was losing my nerve at the prospect of the whorehouse, and then my shame would be complete and there would be nothing left for me to do but crawl under a rock and die.

Dark Nation started whining. She could smell our anxiety. Of the four of us, I was the only one who had been beneath the plate before. Dad used to enjoy trotting me out for things like ribbon-cutting ceremonies, in my Little Prez days.

I didn’t expect the whorehouse to have a landing pad. You live and learn. The place was surrounded by razor wire and muscle. They recognised me and grinned. _Welcome to the HoneyBee Inn, Little Prez! _One of them clapped me on the back as I went in. Reno turned on him, mag-rod fizzing. “Keep your hands to yourself, mate.”

Too late then I thought to ask him, “Do you have authorisation from Veld for this?”

“Keep moving,” he said, hustling us inside. “Listen, champ, I’m sticking my neck out for you here. The Chief’ll be cool with it if your old man’s cool with it, and your old man will be cool if you are. Just relax. You and your friends can thank me later.”

He put a word in someone’s ear, and we were taken to a private room.

I had known when I agreed to this that it was going to be awful, but only in an abstract sense. I had no clear picture. No idea _how_ awful. Or how literal. The girls in honeybee costumes. The little antennae pompoms on their heads. The plush carpets; the gilded velvet armchairs, the swags of red and purple brocade curtain; the lack of windows or fresh air; the heat; the smell of what I assumed was female sex but was in fact (I now know) a mix of cigar smoke, whiskey, and patchouli. The tinted lightbulbs inside Wutai paper lampshades. And the other sort of detail, the little mementoes left behind by the men who had passed through here before us. Beer rings on the table. Scuff marks on the wall. A darker patch of carpet. A perfectly circular cigarette burn.

“Don’t you worry, kids,” said my Turk. “Uncle Reno will make sure his friends take good care of you.”

I didn’t belong here. This place was for men like him. My place was Penscombe.

Reno got busy organising everything. A honeybee brought champagne for us and poured it into four tall glasses. My Turk wasn’t drinking on the job. On the table, bowls of roasted peanuts awaited our fingers and mouths. Music began to play. Not the kind of music my friends and I listened to. It sounded foreign. Half a dozen girls draped in diaphanous scarves came through the curtains and began to dance in a bored languorous way, frequently glancing in my direction, either from pure curiosity or to check if they were rousing my interest. They knew who I was.

“Put everything on my tab,” said Reno.

They seemed so much _larger_ than the girls I knew. Like a different species, all breast and buttock. So much jiggling female flesh. An assortment of shapes and sizes and colours. A human box of chocolates. Which one is to your taste, sir?

Reno explained how it worked. On her wrist each girl wore a number. Once we’d made our choice, the honeybee-waitress would note her number and organise a room where we could “meet privately”, as Reno put it. Johnny had been sporting a raging boner since the moment we’d walked in the door, which he was now trying and failing to hide under the jacket laid across his lap. The way he and Hughie and Reno talked about the women on show made me think of Aunt Pansy discussing the breeding hens with her head groom. The sickening suspicion came to me that Reno had brought me here on my Dad’s orders. _It’s time we checked the family jewels are in working order, eh?_ What good are sons if they can’t give you grandsons?

The temperature in that room was extremely hot; we were all sweating, but I didn’t want to take off my jacket. To remove even a single item of clothing would feel as if I were giving consent.

The honeybee-waitress took Hughie and Johnny’s orders. She left the room, and shortly afterwards Numbers Two and Three bowed out through the curtain. I wondered how they knew. A buzzer hidden somewhere on their bodies? The honeybee returned and invited the two young gentlemen to follow her.

How long could it take? With any luck, we would be able to leave soon.

Alex sat hunched in misery, staring at his shoes. Waves of shame came off him like radio noise. I could guess what he was thinking, because I knew Alex: he wanted to apologise to those women for his role in this farce; for participating, however unwillingly, in the degradation of love. I longed to tell him he was right and I was sorry, but I didn’t dare. Reno would hear.

Reno slid into the seat next to me. “Hey, birthday boy, don’t be shy. You can have whichever one you want. They’re all here for you. What’s the matter, spoilt for choice? Lemme get you one I _know_ you’ll like. Summer, babe, c’mere.” He patted his knee.

She was slimmer than the others. She had long black hair. She had eyes like Tseng’s.

Panic seized me.

I saw his plan. He knew, he knew everything, and he had tricked me into coming here in order to expose and humiliate me in front of my friends. _What’s wrong, little Prez? Ain’t she got the right _equipment_ for you?_

He knew and he would tell my father and my father would kill me. My father had Lazard. He didn’t need me anymore. He would kill me.

I stood up. “Alex, give me your phone.”

“What are you doing?” said Reno.

Alex couldn’t hand me his phone fast enough. I flipped it open and started dialling.

Reno stood up too. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m calling Veld.”

“What? Why?”

“You’re a damned pimp, Reno.”

“What the - Where the fuck did _that _come from? I thought we were having fun. Give me that - “

If I’d been anyone else he’d have got the phone off me. He moves like lightning. But he didn’t dare touch me. I stepped back just as the call connected.

“Veld, it’s me, Rufus.”

Reno was hissing, “What the _fuck_ is wrong with you -”

“Rufus?” said Tseng.

I almost hung up. I’d have hung up if I could. But it was too late. I’d spoken.

I can’t remember why he was answering Veld’s phone. He does that sometimes, as part of his job. Did. It’s his phone now. I’d rather not remember the conversation that ensued. I was trying to convey outraged moral decency, but I am pretty sure I sounded merely petulant. Tseng very quickly asked to speak to Reno. Their conversation went on for rather longer, and I only heard Reno’s side of it. _I dunno, man, one minute we’re all sitting here having a good time and the next he’s freaking out on me. Yeah, I did, actually. Call me a sentimental fool, but I thought it’d make a nice birthday present. Most kids his age would jump at the chance. Ah, c’mon, boss, really? Where’s the harm? Do him good. Loosen him up a bit. He’s always so uptight.…. “_

He was in trouble, and he knew it, and he knew he couldn’t talk his way out of it, but he was going to say his piece all the same.

I regret everything about this incident. I regret agreeing to it in the first place. I regret the pain it gave Alex. I regret not seeing the business through once I was committed; I regret giving in to panic and allowing my fear to control me. I regret the punishment Reno received at Veld’s hands. I regret that we so completely misunderstood each other. He had no hidden agenda that night. I understand that now. He wasn’t trying to trick or shame me, and if I hadn’t been so afraid of my father I wouldn’t have been so quick to suspect him. He was trying to do me a favour, the kind of favour he would have appreciated when he was my age. The kind of favour an older brother might do for a younger brother. Maybe it was his way of apologising for being such an arsehole so many times before.

But he didn’t know me, and so, he got it catastrophically wrong.

Another helicopter was sent to collect me. Reno would have to take my friends home. When Rosalind arrived to escort me back to the building, she called him a pitiful excuse for an idiot and boxed his ears, which was a sight worth seeing, had I been in any state to appreciate it. My immediate panic having ebbed, I was beginning to see, with sickening clarity, what the long term consequences of my ‘freak-out’ would be.

My reputation was going to be destroyed. Hughie and Johnny would emerge from their private rooms and ask where I was. Reno would then revel in telling them how I’d acted like a total pussy, crying for my daddy to take me home; my friends would spread the story all around town, and I’d become the laughing stock of the entire universe. Forever.

Yet that’s not what actually happened. Thanks to Alex. Alex saved me. He told Reno to tell Hughie and Johnny that I’d been urgently summoned home to deal with a family emergency, and Reno, for his own mysterious or nefarious purposes, did just that, although I could not and still cannot fathom why he chose to redeem me rather than put the boot in. When we all returned to Penscombe at the end of the exeat, my reputation wasn’t merely intact, but enhanced. What a great pal I was! You can rely on old Rufe to take good care of his friends! Johnny, hugely pleased with his own adventure, clapped me on the back and said, _tough luck, old chap, terrible timing. _

My father found the entire episode hilarious. It couldn’t be kept from him, alas. He felt compelled to tell the story at my family birthday lunch on the Sunday, mostly because he’s a monumental cunt but also, I think, because the mere fact that I’d had the balls to visit a brothel suggested to him that there might be hope for me and he wanted to share this good news with the people closest to him: my mother’s Palmer cousins Uncle Roland and Aunt Pansy; his board members Heidegger and Scarlet; and his chief assassin, Pieter Veld. And Tseng, Veld’s ever-present shadow. While my father was talking I sneaked a glance at Tseng to see if I could tell what he was thinking, only to catch him sneaking a glance at me. He quickly looked away, but the damage was done. I had seen the pity in his eyes.

“Don’t you be too hard on that rascal Reno,” Dad told Veld. “His intentions were good. Son, you lost your bottle this time and maybe that’s to be expected, but there’s got to be a first time and the next time will be easier. Soon we won’t be able to keep you away, eh? Eh? Nothing wrong with a healthy appetite in a young man. When I was your age I was at it every chance I got, and I won’t say how many that was but what I will say is this: Shinra Inc’s always had plenty of satisfied customers.”

He laughed complacently. Uncle Roland laughed, Heidegger laughed, Veld made a non-committal noise and Scarlet looked as if she’d caught a whiff of something that had been dead for a week.

“Really, Julius,” said Aunt Pansy, “This is not a suitable topic of conversation for the dinner table.”

My father deigned to bestow upon me the look I loathe and detest above all others: his fatuous beam of paternal approval. Somewhat qualified, in this case, by my failure to follow through on what I’d started. “We’ll make a man of you yet,” he said.

_I hate him_, I thought.

That high security landing pad outside the whorehouse? I knew whose it was. That place was his place. Those girls were his girls, the girls he fucked. He paid them to fuck him. They were my old man’s leftovers. His hand-me-downs. His dick could have been inside any or all of those girls. The same dick that had been up inside my mother. The dick that had made me, and because of that, thought it owned me. The dick who was hellbent on turning me into a dick like him.

I was so full of rage I could barely breathe. I couldn’t look at him, or any of them. I couldn’t trust myself to speak. I turned inwards, staring into the bottomless well of hatred that had suddenly opened up inside me, wondering how long it had been there and why I hadn’t been conscious of its presence until that moment. It felt as if it had always been there. It still does.


	13. Chapter 13

It wasn’t the whorehouse that changed my mind. It was the dinner.

The day after the Honeybee Incident, which was a Saturday, I spent in such a crippling fog of shame and dread that I couldn’t bring myself to check whether the raid on the Blue Griffin pub was going ahead. What if it wasn’t? How could I bear it? My self-esteem had been shredded and salted with mockery. Only my raid could save me from eternal humiliation. If my raid wasn’t going to happen, I would have no further reason to live.

By Sunday my need to know had become stronger than my fear of failure. I didn’t waste time trying to hack into Veld’s account; the Turks’ files, like those of the science department, are impregnable. Not so the confidential minutes of the board meetings. Wendy likes to think she’s pretty tech-savvy for an old bird. Fortunately for me, she’s deluding herself. I’ve been able to access her files since I was ten years old.

In the minutes of the meeting held on the second of February: _item, proposed joint action 22/2/00 DAR/SOLDIER, Upper Midgar 7 contra anti-Shinra elements. Security concerns. _The date was right. That had to be my raid. It had to.

The rest of that Sunday, right up until the fateful dinner, I spent in a more optimistic frame of mind. Dinner was a revelation. An epiphany. I saw the abyss inside myself, and realised I could fall into it, lose myself entirely, if I wasn’t careful. That night while I was sleeping my mind must have been hard at work, because when I woke up, I knew what I had to do. I waited until the hour was appropriate for making social calls, and then I dialled Mercedes’ number. The housemaid picked up. She fetched Mercedes. This took a while.

Our conversation:

Mercedes: _Oh, Rufe, why are you calling so early? I was still asleep._

Me: _It’s noon. What are you doing tomorrow night?_

Mercedes: (vaguely) _I don’t know. I have a thing on…._

Me: _Don’t go. Come see _Materia Hunters_ with me._

Mercedes: _Sorry, Rufe. Prior engagement. Manners, you know. _

Me: _That thing you’ve got on - I’ve heard it’s going to be very crowded. Some Shinra oiks are planning to gatecrash. There might be a bust-up. Not fun. You’d be better off watching zombies with me._

Mercedes: (long long pause. She knew my phone was bugged and all my calls logged. Logs which Tseng must be currently reviewing.) _How did you find out?_

Me: _So - Zombies?_

Mercedes: (another long pause) _Shit. What?_

Me: _Will you cancel your plans and come with me?_

Mercedes: _Um -_

Me: (feeling her panic rising down the phone line, her brain ticking over, what to do, what to do?) _I’ll pick you up at seven, all right? Promise me._

Mercedes _… Okay…__. _

I put the phone down, then picked it up again to make an internal call, ordering a car, a Turk, a security detail, and for arrangements to be made at the cinema. I thought about inviting Alex as well, then decided against it. Mercedes and I might want to talk. The rest of the day I spent playing _King’s Knight_, reading a history book Dr Braska had lent me, and willing time to go faster. The mounting excitement, the consciousness of my own deliberate wrong-doing, the sense of being right at the core of something daringly dangerous - it was like the second flyers incident all over again, but a million times more intense.

_This is the way to live_, I thought.

The next afternoon I dropped by the Turks’ floor to see if I could get a feel for what was happening - and also, I suppose, because I wanted to keep topping up my cup of thrilling sensation. There was definitely a buzz in the air. Could this really be _my_ raid? Was Mercedes - was I - were _we_ really involved in something this big?

“Rufus,” said Tseng, “Not now. We’re busy.”

“I can see that. What’s going on?”

“He’ll tell you all about it tomorrow,” said Veld, coming out of his office. “Marr will be on duty with you tonight, Rufus, all right?”

Marr the rookie. Not needed for the big mission. I liked Marr: he was young, maybe eighteen or nineteen, with clever eyes and a happy-go-lucky grin less feral than Reno’s. I liked having him as my bodyguard. He did a good job of blending into the woodwork and allowing me my illusion of freedom. He died later that year. Genesis killed him, in Banora.

Marr sat in the front seat of the limo, beside the chauffeur. When we arrived at the Gandara’s house, I waited in the car while Marr went up the steps to the front door and rang the bell. Several minutes of anxiety followed. Mercedes was so unpredictable. Eventually she appeared dressed in one of the peculiar mis-matched outfits that represented her striving for authenticity. She followed Marr down the steps, got in beside me on the back seat, took my hand and gave it a hard squeeze. She didn’t say anything.

We drove to the cinema at the shopping complex in Sector Three. Mercedes and I were the only two people in the audience; we were like a tiny island of castaways surrounded by a sea of empty seats, with my Turk somewhere in the dark behind us and PSM at all the doors. She said, “Where is everybody?” and I said, “Security cleared the place,” belatedly remembering she had never been to a public cinema with me before. From the look on her face, I hoped she was beginning to understand exactly why Penscombe was so important to me. But all she said was, “Little Prez, your normal is not my normal.”

Once the film started we were able to talk more freely, putting our heads close together and whispering while my indulgent Turk looked on from the shadows. “How did you know?” she asked me. “Tell me everything.”

I couldn’t tell her everything, but I made up a good story. The Turks were in my pocket. There was nothing I couldn’t find out. Her organisation would never find anyone more useful than me.

She said, “So they’re raiding it now? Right now?”

“What will they find?” I asked her. I wanted them to find _something, _just nothing that would incriminate Mercedes. I wanted Veld and Dad to know the tip-off had been good. I wanted them to feel angry, cheated, frustrated…

“Nothing,” she said. “I took your warning. I warned everybody. They’ll have cleared it out. Rufus, did you save my life tonight? You did, didn’t you? You saved my life.”

“Do you believe I’m on your side now?”

“I’ve always believed it. I’m going to tell Pia what you did for us. She’ll make sure the Leader knows. This could change everything, Rufe.”

She said, “I need to thank you. Please let me thank you.” She was fumbling with my belt buckle. This was, to say the least, unexpected. Did she think I’d brought her here, emptied the cinema, for this?

I said, “What are you doing?” which was ludicrous for two reasons: firstly, because I didn’t say it so much as yelp it, and secondly because I knew what she was trying to do. I’d messed around with Alex. I’d see films. And yet, it’s what we say, isn’t it? _What are you doing?_

“What do you think I’m doing?” she laughed.

“You don’t have to. It’s not necessary.”

“I _want_ to do it. I want to give you something special. It’s your birthday.”

Her hands were cold. What should I do? Run away, like I’d run from the Honeybee? Or submit?

“Mercedes, the Turk is watching.”

“So? They can keep a secret, can’t they?”

“But what if your parents - “

“Rufe, just shut _up_ and enjoy it.”

Her hands were cold but her mouth was hot. My fears that I would fail to rise to the occasion proved unfounded. _Rise to the occasion_. Dear god. Those are the exact words Dad would use. Brain, why must the old man insist on intruding where he’s not wanted? That blow-job in the cinema isn’t my favourite memory, but it’s not a bad one either. She persisted, and soon I forgot about the Turk in the shadows. I came. I enjoyed it. I wasn’t thinking about Mercedes.

Afterwards, I liked her less than I had before. I don’t know why that happens.


	14. Chapter 14

Door opening. Who? -

It’s just Knox, our swordsman from Gongaga. All the babies cut their teeth on steel down there. He’s not carrying a tray, so he must have come to empty my portapotty. That’s a crappy job. Maybe I should say that to him. They give you all the shittiest jobs, Knox. And you the oldest Turk in the department.

What a mess his face is. He used to be so handsome. Two years ago, a bomb exploded metres from his head during the attack on Avalanche HQ north of Icicle Inn. The medics sewed him back together. There’s a mythril plate where part of his skull used to be. Reno was on that mission too. He escaped unscathed, naturally.

The mobile toilet they’ve given me is on wheels, so at least he doesn’t have to physically pick it up. If I were them, I’d make me do it myself, but then I’d have to leave this room and that’s a big no-no. He hasn’t looked at me once. He’s pushing my shit out like I’m not even here; as if, in this department, shit simply materialises out of thin air.

I’m going to say it.

“They’ve got you shoving shit again, eh, Knox?”

Here he comes. All they need from me is a prompt. The little shit is full of shit. Let’s beat the shit out of him. He needs a lesson. What’s my lesson for today?

Arm twisted behind my back. Is he going to dislocate my shoulder, is that the goal? My body insists on standing. The body’s an animal, it flees pain blindly. And this pain is nothing yet. Knox is taller than me. I’m on tiptoe. I can’t see his face, but I can feel him coiling to strike.

Now _this_ is the pain I’m talking about.

Did he just cut off my arm? Don’t be ridiculous, Rufus - if he’d cut off your arm there’d be blood everywhere, your arm would be lying there on the floor beside his glasses. Your arm is broken, that’s all. Why are his glasses on the floor? Did they fly off his face when he struck me? He’s bending to pick them up.

He doesn’t look happy. What a sad sack this Turk has become. If breaking my arm doesn’t make him feel better, then what’s the point of it? Is he just going through the motions? Come on, Knox, cheer up. Look at me: I’m still smiling.

And now the Heal materia. Can’t let Tseng find me with a broken arm. Plausible deniability, etc - 

Oh my god it’s such a fucking wierd feeling, right on that razor’s edge between pleasure and pain. A burst of energy, as if a tiny little star is exploding inside you, and then the tingling dissipation…

_Use with Caution_, it says on the tin. Or it would. If it came in a tin.

And there he goes with my shit. Completing his mission. I hope he brings my potty back soon. I don’t want to have to wait a whole day again. That was painful. Bloody Mink, she’s more cunning than she lets on.

I accept the broken bones, but I wish we could dispense with the materia. If they keep breaking my bones and healing them, I’m going to end up with an addiction like Kitty. The last time I saw Alex - the last time I saw him sober, he told me she’d been committed. Some clinic in Healen. She’d cut too deep. Sliced into her thigh. Hit an artery. Luckily she had the cure materia to hand - if you can call it luck, when the buzz from the cure was the cause for the cutting. The deeper the wound, the stronger the hit. I suppose she couldn’t hide what she was doing from her father any longer.

Pretty Kitty T, her daddy’s one ewe lamb. Miss Katharine Tredescant, another only child, like me, her parents divorced, her mother somewhere far away, rarely seen.

She was my friend. Unlike some of my other friends, I actually liked her. We had some good talks, deep talks, about life, dreams, the vast distances of space, how human beings never change. A tall, sporty girl, captain of the girls’ cricket and netball teams. Kitty excelled at everything she did. She’d be Head Girl now, if she were still at Penscombe. I wonder if she’s still at the clinic. I wonder if she’s still alive.

Kitty was the one true beauty in our group. Mercedes was pretty; Allegra had the blonde hair and the big white smile, but Kitty’s was like a classic portrait by an old master. Demure hazel eyes. Flawless golden-brown skin. Piles and piles of soft brown hair. She wanted to be a doctor.

Kitty was in Woodruff House. All my friends, except for Mercedes, were in Fortitude or Woodruff. Even at Penscombe there’s a hierarchy. I can spot an Old Fortie at fifty paces from the way he carries himself, as if he owns the world. Fool! Don’t you know who owns the world these days? And one day it will all be mine. Why else would the old school have gone to all the trouble of accommodating me, my guard hound, my security details, the endless surveillance and intrusions? Dr Wiley took the long view. Penscombe’s been around much longer than Shinra, Inc.

That year I placed second overall in the fourth form. Kitty beat me by three points. I won the mathematics prize and the history prize. Alex won the language arts prize. Kitty scooped all the science prizes. It’s just astonishing to think back on how important those meaningless prizes seemed to us then. Dad couldn’t come to prize-giving. He had a meeting or something. Veld came and brought Tseng with him, not as my security but to sit with everybody else’s families and applaud me. And even though I knew my fake-Dad had his own reasons for being there - the truth about Lazard’s parentage had escaped the confines of the boardroom and rumours were running wild - it felt good to have them both with me. Tseng especially. Two guard hounds sitting among the poodles. Tseng shook my hand afterwards and said, “The President is very proud of you, Rufus.”

Oh, screw him. What about you, Tseng? Can’t you tell me that you’re proud of me, just once?

Veld congratulated our pretty Kitty and said, “We’ll have to keep an eye on you, Miss Tredescant. It won’t be long before you’re running our science department.” He was flirting with her, the old hound. I don’t think she realised. She’s always been a serious girl. Personally, I can think of no better replacement for that sack of shit Hojo, but Kitty’s never been interested in working for Shinra. When I knew her, she dreamed of being the good Dr Tredescant, travelling on a push-bike with her stethoscope and her cure materia to remote, inaccessible places, bringing hope and healing to those who have none.

Does she cling to that dream still? Maybe nowadays all she dreams about is getting better. Let’s climb one mountain at a time, right? No, I can’t imagine Kitty caring about such paltry dreams. Recovery for recovery’s sake, that’s not enough to live for -

What’s this? Is my shitmobile returning? No - it’s Tseng! And me with my arm still tingling -

Why am I getting up? Rufus, control yourself. If you show that you’re pleased to see him, he’ll only use it against you.

He’s standing by the door. He hasn’t shut it yet; he’s neither in nor out. “Do you want to talk today? Or would we be wasting our time?”

_We. Our. _Is he trying to brainwash me into thinking we’re engaged in some kind of collaborative effort? “Maybe I’ll talk, and it’ll turn out to be a waste of your time after all.”

He’s decided to come in. The door shuts. I like the quiet _swish_ it makes when it opens and closes. _Swish _and then a soft _thunk_ as it slides home. Prison doors usually clang. There’s no place for squeaky hinges in the Department of Administrative Research!

“We’re not really making much progress,” he says.

“Is that my problem? I think that’s your problem.”

He’s not sitting. He’s pacing. Someone must have wound him up. Who? Dad? The slum angel?

“Rufus, I need to know who your contacts were in Avalanche. Who were you passing information to?”

“I’ve already told you. Pia.”

“I don’t believe you. She can’t have been the only one. What about Angie Armiger?”

“She only dealt with the finances. She hates Avalanche; she was always telling me we should get out.”

“Intelligent woman. What about Braska?”

This pacing of his is a little hypnotic. If he had a tentacle he’d been lashing it right now. What fabulous muscle control he must have, to be so precise in all his movements, even when he’s over-wrought. And he’s so totally unselfconscious about his body. I used to think that what I felt, when I watched him walk or run or stretch or simply answer a phone, was envy -

“Rufus?”

“What?”

“I asked you about Braska.”

“But Tseng, why can’t Pia have been the only one? Why would I need two?”

“And after Pia died? Who’s been your contact since then?”

“No one.”

The way he sighs, you’d think there was an iron band around his chest. “If you’re going to lie, at least try to make it believable.”

“If you’re not going to believe me when I tell you the truth, why should I?”

“Back in 1990, after you turned fifteen, after the failed raid, when you went back to school at the end of February - did Mercedes recruit anyone else to join you? Did you?”

“I never recruited anyone. Mercedes might have, I don’t know.”

“What about Leelee Visser?”

“It’s possible. Leelee was in Minerva House too. She was Mercedes’ friend, not mine. It’s not as if we were a regular Wednesday afternoon club. You’re being very aggressive today, Tseng. Is my old man breathing down your neck?”

Oh, you can be sure he is. Huffing and puffing like a malboro. Poison breath. Tseng’s eyes are practically shouting _get him off my back_. Dad is not a patient man.

“He wants you out of here, Rufus. I’m trying to make that happen. Don’t you want to get out of here?”

“I don’t know, Tseng. If Dad wants me out of here, maybe that means I should stay. I have this gut feeling that whatever he wants for me is the opposite of what would be good for me. And you know, as long as I’m away on my ‘extended business trip’, I can’t be blamed for any of his moronic cock-ups. You know how he always likes to have someone to blame.”

He’s pulling out the other chair. Finally, he’s going to sit. A few strands of hair have come loose from his ponytail. Dad really must have given him a grilling. He’s stretching his hand out to me - wait, what? Is he going to touch me? - Oh, no, of course not. He’s merely making an unusually emphatic gesture. Am I relieved or disappointed? Why is it so hard to tell? Wait, what’s he saying?

“ - get you the results you wanted?”

“Sorry, what?”

“You’re not listening. I’m wasting my time here - “

“No, no, Tseng, I’m listening. I just didn’t hear it. What did you say?”

“I said, did your double-dealing get you the results you wanted?”

“My double-dealing?” Oh, he means the Blue Griffin raid. “Not really. I wasn’t welcomed into the Avalanche flock with open arms, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“What did Fuhito want from you?”

“Nothing.”

“Rufus - “

“It’s true. After the Blue Griffin raid, our little Avalanche cell of two was utterly moribund for the rest of the year. I tried a couple of times to call Pia, but she feigned ignorance. Mercedes was cut out of the loop completely. No more clandestine meetings in dank Midgar basements for her. I don’t know if they figured out she had something to do with the leak or whether it was a case of better safe than sorry. She said the Leader had called her a child who couldn’t be trusted. It devastated her, to tell you the truth. And it drove a wedge between us.”

“But even then you didn’t think of coming clean?”

“Coming clean?”

“Telling the Chief. Telling me.”

“What would I have gained from that? The way I saw it, if the game was over, it was over.”

“But it wasn’t over.”

“I didn’t know that then. At the time it felt as if I’d come to the end of the road. I’ve never been privy to what goes on inside Fuhito’s head, but if I had to guess, I’d say he was letting me lie fallow while he figured out what to do with me. I was a sort of - unforseen random accident, so to speak. Nobody had _invited_ me to join them. I’d simply… gatecrashed the party. And I mean, when you think about it, he sent Mercedes out on a simple mission to extract money from some thick rich kids, and she came back with the son and heir of their ultimate arch-enemy, and that has to be either an incredibly stupid error of judgement or the most fantastic coup in the history of ever. My guess is Fuhito needed some time to decide which one I was.”

“You’re lucky he didn’t try to kill you.”

“You think so? I think the poetic justice of the situation held enormous appeal for him. Do I mean poetic justice? Or dramatic irony? Anyway, he wouldn’t want to throw me away until he was certain he had no use for me. I didn’t really pose him much danger. What did I know about his organisation? I knew Mercedes and Pia. If I’d made trouble for him, he would have cut them loose to face the consequences and walked away like a lizard dropping its tail. Always more where they came from. A Rufus Shinra, on the other hand…”

I’m the one and only. The cheese stands alone.

Tseng looks sad again. What can he be thinking? _If only Rufus had felt there was someone he could confide in! If only I’d spent more time with him! All the chances I missed! If only -_

The door’s opening, swish-thunk. Here it comes, my shitmobile, it’s returning unto me, pushed by the splendidly scowly Hunter.

“Drawn the short straw again, Hunter?” It’s like shooting fish in a barrel.

“Director Scarlet wants to see you, sir. She says it’s urgent.”

“Scarlet wants you, Tseng! It’s urgent!”

Look how wearily he gets to his feet. And he’s only been Commander for - what? How long has it been? Two months? No, longer than that, surely.

“I’ll look in again tomorrow, Rufus.”

Hunter scuttles through the door after him. _Swish-thunk_.

Let’s look on the bright side. At least I’ve got my toilet back.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's quite a lot of sex between various teenagers in this chapter. Nothing too graphic, though.

What was I thinking about before all that happened? Oh yes. Kitty Tredescant. Another member of the we’ve-known-each-other-since-we-were-in-nappies brigade. A really decent human being, like Alex.

That summer, the summer between the fourth and fifth forms, Kitty and I played a lot of tennis together. She played a hard game. We were double partners in the club tournament. Which we won. In the evenings we went to the same parties, just as we’d always done since the dawn of time, though the nature of our fun and games had evolved over the years. Rainbow jelly had been replaced by jello shots, pass the parcel by pass the spliff (though what was inside the wrapping was still often a mystery, especially if Alex had done the rolling). Hide and seek had morphed into a new game, in which we vanished into darkened rooms with one or more partners and re-emerged an hour or so later with our clothes on back to front or our shirts misbuttoned or our socks missings, and purple hickeys like prize medals up and down our necks.

Such shenanigans were grounds for expulsion at Penscombe. We knew this was no idle threat: the previous year the deputy head boy and the girl’s games captain were bagged when Vandermeer caught them together in the cricket pavilion with their pants around their ankles. Rumour had it his ex-girlfriend was the one who grassed him up.

So we mostly behaved ourselves at school, but when we were in Midgar, we went wild. Or at least, my friends did. I didn’t do much vanishing into dark rooms. Less than I was invited to do, but more than I really wanted to. To abstain completely would have looked freaky and provoked gossip. I had to give my watchers something to report from time to time, or my old man would have grown suspicious and then I’d really have been in trouble. Not much happened behind those closed doors. I didn’t like being touched or kissed. Hand jobs, blow jobs I could just about tolerate. I had to let them do _something_. But it was all a bit like going to the dentist. When you’re finished you think, _well, at least that’s taken care of_. Until the next time.

My lack of interest in fucking girls was becoming more troubling to me by the day.

On two heart-stoppingly terrifying occasions I allowed myself to be drawn behind a closed door by another boy. Not out of curiosity. Out of fear; out of a desire to confront that fear. To prove to myself that I wasn’t _like that_. I wasn’t like Alex. Alex never asked me and I wouldn’t have gone with him if he did. If I’d gone with Alex, it would have meant something. The first was Mark Underwood from Attica House. The second was somebody’s cousin from Costa del Sol, older than me. Alonso, his name was. Two underwhelming experiences for all concerned. I was so utterly drenched in fear, I could not possibly have enjoyed it even if I’d wanted to, and I did not want to: that was the whole point.

Once - now, this is a nice memory - Anasuya Polder from Queen’s Ribbon House and I went into her mother’s bedroom and shut the door, and she looked at me, and I looked at her, and I said, “Do you actually want to?” and she said, “Honestly, no offence, not really,” and we both laughed and relaxed, and she took out a pack of cards and we played cribbage for an hour. She’s a decent person, Anasuya.

The parties I went to were comparatively tame. The presence of my security detail made sure of that. Nobody believed my Turks wouldn’t report back to their parents. I regularly declined invitations so as not to cramp my friends’ style, a courtesy which I feel they never fully appreciated. Parental units were not much in evidence at these parties. We planned around their absences, and all our parents were busy people. Unless they were the worst kind of parent, the kind who likes to join in the fun -

Lola Capodimonti’s extremely drunk mother cornered me once in their kitchen where I’d gone to find something to eat. She told me I’d grown into a lovely lovely young man and asked me if I was still a virgin. I didn’t know how to extricate myself; I was a bit stoned and I was trying to be polite. Mrs Capodimonti told me her husband never came home any more, he was always down under the plate fucking Honeybees. _Well what a coincidence._ Maybe I should have said that. She backed me up against the marble counter and tried to kiss me, and then, thank god, Marr came to my rescue. How do you fight off a woman who used to read story books to your class during carpet time at nursery school?

She was the first, but she wasn’t the last. And it wasn’t just my friends’ mothers. Once I was having dinner at Johnny’s house and his Uncle Robbie put his hand on my thigh under the tablecloth. I jumped from sheer shock, but his hand held me on my seat. I could feel my face turning red. Why was he doing this? Did he think I wanted it? Had I inadvertently sent him some kind of signal? Before I could get my thoughts straight, Cissnei materialised at my side and the loathsome Uncle Robbie snatched his hand back. She bent down and whispered in his ear loud enough for me to hear, “Touch him again and I’ll break all your fingers.” I still don’t know how she knew.

“Master Shinra has to leave now,” she informed the table.

In the car on the way home, she said, “Next time some fuckwad takes liberties, you stab their hand with a fork, understand? Don’t you _ever_ let anyone get away with that shit, sir. Doesn’t matter who they are. Hand. Fork. Stab. Got it?”  
Cissnei scared me a little, but I liked her. She was the one who showed me how to put on a condom. She used a cucumber. Probably Veld told her to do it, but… It could have been awkward. She made it funny. “Sheesh,” she said, “Don’t they teach you anything useful at that fancy school?”

She was also the one who told me _everybody wants to fuck Rufus Shinra._

Context: “Listen, sir, there’s something you need to understand, and I don’t know how else to say it, so I’m just going say it. You’re a good-looking boy. Plenty of people are going to want to hop in the sack with you. But everybody, I mean everybody, will want to fuck Rufus Shinra. Everybody’s going to want a piece of _him_. You’ve got to be careful not to confuse the two. You’re you, he’s him. You’re a real person. He’s a - a - a - “

“Construct?” I suggested helpfully.

“Yeah. What I’m saying is, you need to learn to tell the difference between people who are interested in _you_ and fuckwads who just want to screw Rufus Shinra.”

I nodded, as if I totally understood what she was talking about. I didn’t, of course. What I wanted to say, what I should have said, was “How do I do that? How do I tell the difference?” But I was afraid of looking ignorant in front of her.

She went on, “I mean, honestly, I think you’re still a little too young to have to hear this, but we can’t leave you to learn it the hard way. You have to take care of yourself, sir.”

I replied, rather crassly, because her frankness had embarrassed me, “Yes, we don’t want any more Lazards cluttering up the place, do we?”

“I’m not just talking about your dick, sir.”

I miss Cissnei. Where is she? I wonder if Tseng knows.

If she were here now she’d take great pleasure in breaking all my fingers for me. _You fucked up, sir. I warned you. _

What started me on this train of thought? Mercedes - no, Kitty. No, Alex.

That summer, he seemed to be permanently stoned. When I expressed concern, he brushed it aside. _Don’t be a bore, Rufe_. He’d found new friends to hang out with. I saw him less and less. Hughie did nothing but play tennis and drink whenever he could get his hands on it. Connie seemed permanently depressed. She said to me, “I can’t wait to escape from this shithole and start my real life.” I felt sorry for her, but from my point of view, as someone who wanted to stave off my inevitable future as Dad Mark II for as long as possible, I couldn’t empathise. And Allegra had lost interest in everything except sex and competitive starvation, which meant we had nothing left in common.

Mercedes suddenly had a new best friend: the one Tseng mentioned, Leelee Visser from Minerva House, the daughter of Sylvester Visser, whose great-grandfather had made his fortune mining mythril and diamonds. In mid-July the two of them left the city to visit Forland and then Cosmo Canyon. “Is that all over, then?” Kitty asked me. “You and her.”

“It never really was. It was mostly my imagination.”

“You mean she started to bore you,” said Kitty astutely.

I did briefly toy with the idea of warning Mr and Mrs Visser that their daughter was being recruited for a radical environmentalist cult, before realising that any attempt to do so would entangle me in a can of worms I didn’t really want to re-open.

Leelee ran off to join Avalanche permanently last summer, when I was seventeen. Before she left, she made quite a dent in the family’s diamond fortunes. Tseng knows all about Leelee: the scandal of her disappearance was the talk of the town. She wasn’t the first. A couple of other kids from my wider social circle, though not from my school, were rumoured to have run off to become terrorists. But she was by far the wealthiest.

“I don’t know what gets into you young people,” Dad grumbled.

“I blame the parents,” said my childless Aunt Pansy.

Dad said, “Your generation is spoiled rotten. We give you everything and you throw it back in our faces.”

“Our Rufus isn’t like that.” Aunt Pansy patted my arm fondly.

Dear Aunt Pansy. How wrong you were.

Dad wasn’t thinking of me. He was thinking of Lazard. Lazard did a bunk last summer too. Dad’s first thought was that he’d gone to join Avalanche. Veld said he hadn’t. I _knew_ he hadn’t, but I could hardly say so.

Leelee Visser must be dead by now. I wonder if Lazard is still alive.

Anyway, Kitty. Not last summer, but three summers ago, that summer when I was fifteen, the same summer Cissnei taught me how to put a condom on a cucumber and Rosalind told me I was “getting pretty handy” with the Quicksilver and would soon be ready to graduate to a Randall - that summer, Dad decided we should spend August cruising the Mideel coast and the Kappanisa Islands. I packed my board shorts and my books and I was ready to go. I was glad to get out of Midgar.

Dad flew back to the office during the week, leaving me alone on the yacht, just me and Dark Nation, and my Turk - usually Marr or Rosalind but sometimes Rude or Cissnei. Never Reno, not since the incident at the Honeybee Inn. Yes, just me, my hound, my Turk, and my PSM detail both on the yacht and in the smaller patrol boats, and Barthelmy the yacht chef, and Captain Kimiko, and Munai the Mideelian dive master, and Nurse Hilary, and Rhona the bartender, and the stewards Ian, Araminta, and Lesley, and the deckhands Dilhan, Bob, Spitch and Ruby. Every week from Tuesday to Friday I was all alone, which meant there was nobody on the yacht but me and the paid help, which meant I was free to do as I liked. I went diving and lay in the sun reading.

Whenever I went diving, Dark Nation lay on the deck staring at the spot in the water where my head had gone under, whining softly until I reappeared. If Cissnei was on duty, she came diving with me. We explored wrecks together. She carried a harpoon. I think there was mythril woven into her swimsuit.

It was after one such pleasant diving session that the Babbington’s yacht hoved into view and Hughie hailed me from the foredeck. I was annoyed to see him. My beautiful solitude, interrupted by a dickhead. Without an invitation he jumped into their dinghy and motored over. When he saw Cissnei sunning herself on a pool lounger his tongue nearly hit the floor.

He asked for a drink. I poured him some of my father’s whiskey. Rhona the bartender looked disapproving but said nothing. I was my own boss. We were on the upper deck, looking down at the pool. Hughie couldn’t stop ogling Cissnei.

“That is beyond any shadow of a doubt the most magnificently fuckable female I’ve ever had the pleasure of setting eyes on,” he informed me.

“She’s a Turk, Hughie.”

“Now I understand why you’ve been hiding away down here.”

“She could remove your testicles with such surgical precision you wouldn’t even know they were gone until you went looking for them. Which I imagine is something you do on a regular basis.”

“I’ll admit to the odd rummage. I mean, who doesn’t? But are you seriously telling me you never - “

“That’s not what she’s here for.”

“Oh, come on. Doesn’t she have to do whatever you tell her? She’s yours, Rufe, you own her. You’re being a bit of a wet blouse, if you don’t mind my saying so.”

I did mind him saying so. “It’s vulgar to talk about owning people,” I told him. I was so incensed I had to get up and go inside. Dark Nation came with me, tentacle lashing. If someone’s made me angry, she knows, and sometimes it isn’t safe for her to be in the vicinity of whoever I’m angry with, so I stayed inside until Hughie had gone. Cissnei told me later that he had hung around on the upper deck for quite a while, drinking my old man’s best malt and leering at her. She didn’t say _you need to find better friends_, but she clearly thought it. Hughie was indisputably a fuckwad.

I had a better friend, Cissnei. I hurt him, and he left me.

Every weekend Dad helicoptered down from Midgar bringing company: Uncle Roland, Heidegger, Scarlet, Veld. Once, Lazard. Lazard Deusericus, what a pretentious fucking name. I had to eat my meals in his company but otherwise I stayed in my cabin.

Lazard wanted my inheritance. He pretended otherwise, but nobody was fooled. That wasn’t why I disliked him. His yearning to be rich beyond the dreams of avarice and powerful beyond all mortal reckoning were perfectly natural ambitions for somebody raised in the slums. And there were times I felt like letting him have it. Sitting at dinner, Dad would start a sentence with, “When you’re running this company, Rufus…” and then he’d look from me to Lazard with a twinkle in his old blue eyes and add, “Of course, there’s no guarantee you’ll follow in my footsteps.” How I yearned then to call his bluff, leap to my feet and cry, “Fine! Do it. Choose _him_. Set me free. Give me ten years and I’ll build my own company from the ground up and it’ll be better than yours, you wait and see.”

Dad would never have given this company to Lazard, not in a million years. What he did for Lazard, he did out of guilt, because he never loved Lazard’s mother. He loved my mother. He named our yacht after her. _Patricia_. What’s named after Lazard’s mother? Nothing. Nobody remembers her.

I didn’t dislike Lazard because I was jealous or because I was afraid he would steal something that belonged by rights to me. I disliked him because he was a pseud.

Let’s just say we didn’t bond during the course of that weekend.

It was supposed to be a long weekend, but he and Dad went back to Midgar on the Monday, a day early. The following weekend Dad came down with a party of friends that included Kitty Tredescant and her father. We docked at Catamaran Cove on Kefali Island, where Harry Worthington’s people have a summer place, and we went up to their house for tennis. Who should we meet but Connie, looking glum. She perked up when she saw us. When she saw Kitty, is probably the truth.

That night the Worthingtons had a party. An adult party: quieter music, rather less sex, rather more food, and just as much alcohol. Bored by the conversation of my elders, I wandered through the huge villa, Dark Nation at my heels, searching for Connie and Kitty, who had vanished. Eventually in a far-flung corner of the house I heard their voices coming from the other side of a closed door: girly noises, giggling, squealing. I opened the door without knocking. I should have known better. They should have locked it. They were lying in each other’s arms on a big bed with a dark red velvet bedspread, wearing only their bikini bottoms, kissing.

“Sorry,” I yelped.

“Rufus!” cried Connie, “Come join us!”

I had already back out and shut the door. I could hear them laughing at me. Dark Nation did not approve. Her ears lay flat against her head. Making my way back to the main party, I excused myself and returned to the _Patricia_, full of regret that my cowardice had got the better of my curiosity. However…

The next day, after a late lunch, my father, Mr Tredescant, and our other guests decided to fly over to Seer Island to hunt hippogriffs. Not my idea of sport. Target shooting, I enjoy. It’s a challenge. Killing animals for no reason but so-called ‘fun’... That’s more my old man’s style.

“He’s one of those animal libbers,” Dad explained to our guests. “All the kids are vegetarians these days.” Cue much hilarity.

They took Rosalind, but left Marr with me. Kitty hadn’t emerged from her cabin all day, much to my relief, since I didn’t know how I was going to meet her eyes. I had just settled down to read in peace when Connie came up the gangplank wearing a thin summer frock, flipflops, and Lavro Lauro sunglasses. She was looking for company, she said. Harry was nursing a boring hangover, she said. But I am convinced she and Kitty planned it between them. She asked where Kitty was, and when I said, “She’s still asleep,” Connie took me by the wrist and said, “Let’s go wake her up then.”

I glanced at Marr. He grinned hugely and gave me the big thumbs up. Make hay while the sun shines, baby.

Curiosity drew me in, but it was their playfulness and mutual affection, their delight in one another, that kept me there. They were my friends. Being with them felt safe. Connie, naked, was thick and lush, with heavy breasts and dimpled buttocks. Kitty’s body was perfect, if one likes that sort of thing. Their bodies interested rather than excited me. It’s always interesting to learn how things work. I hadn’t been close enough to a girl’s sex before to realise just how exactly it resembles the inside of an oyster, convoluted and glistening - except, of course, that a girl’s sex is flesh-coloured. And warm rather than cold. I told them my metaphor and they told me I was weird but they still liked me. Then Connie showed me how to find the pearl, and what to do with it when you’ve found it. Kitty kindly invited me to have a go myself, but I preferred to observe. I wondered how long they’d been doing this together. And where? In their shared set in Woodruff House, while Alex and I were playing the same games across the lawn in Fortitude?

Their nakedness didn’t arouse me, but the noises they were making definitely had an effect, to my great delight, since in those days I was forever on the lookout for proof of my heterosexual tendencies. Kitty politely inquired whether I would like to shag one or both of them. Not right now, thank you, I replied. Connie snorted, “What’s the point of a big dick if you don’t use it?” and Kitty said, rather affectionately, “You know he’s shy, don’t bully him,” and Connie said, also quite affectionately, “He’s just a big dick, but he’s our big dick, aren’t you, Rufe?”

Once they’d taken care of each other, they took care of me, and afterwards we curled up together in a heap like three drowsy, sweaty puppies. Ordinarily I cannot endure being cuddled or hugged for very long, but with Kitty and Connie the closeness was quite tolerable, even pleasant, and I was in no hurry to leave. I was feeling rather chuffed with myself. Another successful heterosexual adventure, and this time, I’d enjoyed it!

Connie’s arm was pillowing my head. Kitty’s arm lay across my chest, the hand palm-up. A beam of sunlight slanting through the porthole lit up the scars criss-crossing her skin from the wrist to the elbow. Healed silvery scars; fresh, red, angry scars. How had I not noticed them before? I didn’t think. I exclaimed, “Kit, what happened to your arm?”

Instantly she pulled her arm away and folded it up tight against her chest, hiding the scars from view.

“It’s nothing,” said Connie. “It looks worse than it is.”

“I put my arm through a patio door,” said Kitty. “Stupid of me. I didn’t realise it was closed.”

“Don’t worry about it, Rufe,” said Connie. “I’m looking after her, aren’t I, Kit? She’s fine now.”

I knew they were lying. Some of those scars were recent, and some of them were old. But what could I do about it? They hadn’t asked me to do anything. Their secrets were none of my business.

We fell asleep, and were woken as the sun was going down by Marr rapping on the cabin door to warn us that my old man’s helicopter was approaching.

The next morning, when Dad came up to breakfast (I had already finished mine, and was reading the newspaper), he apropos of nothing gave me a matey clap on the shoulder and said, “Well done, son. Well done.”

I pretended not to know what he was talking about.

Mr Tredescant then appeared, shortly followed by Kitty looking both radiant and smugly demure. The look on Dad’s face was priceless, a combination of obscene leer and benevolent paternal approval that I would have previously thought it physically impossible for _any_ face to produce. I almost pitied his cluelessness. Kitty’s happiness had nothing to do with me. Mr Tredescant, meanwhile, seemed uninterested in anything beyond boiled eggs and the stock market pages. Since he didn’t threaten me with evisceration or a shotgun wedding I must assume Dad kept what Marr told him to himself. The effort must have nearly killed him. How he must have longed to boast. My son! Not a faggot!

Our threesome had been such a satisfactory experience that I wouldn’t have minded a repeat performance. But it was not to be. Kitty and her father flew back to Midgar that morning, and the same afternoon the Hurda-Lainens arrived in their yacht to pick Connie up from the Worthingtons. Four days later, Connie slipped on the deck in the small hours of the morning, hit her head, fell into the sea, and drowned. It took them two weeks to find her body. By then, we were back at school.

Kitty was assigned a new room-mate. As the term went on we watched her go downhill like a boulder hurtling towards its own demise, knocking aside everyone who got in the way or tried to help. Allegra wasn’t doing too well either. Her clothes hung on her body as it were a wire coat-hanger. Hughie kept a bottle hidden at the bottom of his trunk. Alex came high to maths one day and was suspended for a month. Johnny, my sturdy prop-forward, said to me, “I’ve just got to stick it out until I’m eighteen. You’ll make sure I get into SOLDIER, won’t you, Rufe?”

My friends were coming apart, flying off in different directions, all of them, it seemed to me, destructive.

I think that’s when I made up my mind. If something had to be destroyed, it wasn’t going to be me.


	16. Chapter 16

_Swish –_

Enter Tseng; he has something tucked under his arm. Is it a box? No, a book. A big fat leather-bound tome. The Book. Braska’s book, the book he was guilty of. I should have known it hadn’t been destroyed. All forbidden things find a refuge in the Department of Administrative Research.

He places it on the table between us. A lesser man would have allowed himself the small clichéd pleasure of dropping it onto the table with a thud, and perhaps a small puff of dust exhaling from between its leaves. But I don’t suppose the shelves of the evidence room are allowed to gather dust.

“You recognise this book, don’t you?”

_The Complete History of the Great Grasslands War_, by Dr Gertrude Hubermann. She’s a well known name in Midgar, recently retired as director of documentary programming at the Shinra Information Network. Her two boys went to Penscombe, before my time.

I can’t imagine what Tseng wants to ask me about this book. He questioned me pretty thoroughly the first time around. He already knows who gave it to me: my history teacher, Dr. Braska.

Three weeks into the first term of the fifth form, when we were all just beginning to get used to the idea that Connie was dead, Dr Braska invited me to visit him in his study for tea. I took this invitation as a sign that he intended to bring me into his inner circle of favoured history scholars, a select group who met regularly with Braska for discussion and debate. I was honoured, but not entirely surprised, to have been chosen; I was the best history student in my form. It was therefore a bit of a shock to find Mercedes already ensconced in one of his armchairs when I arrived for tea. She wasn’t taking History5. She’d failed History4. “What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“Brasker’s running a bit late. Sit down, Rufe. We need to wait for him. He’s one of us.”

I couldn’t believe she meant what I thought she meant. Not old Braskers, surely? In class he came across as a fervent modernist, consistently flogging the Shinra party line. _Old bad, new good. Mako means progress!_

But she did mean exactly what I thought she meant, as she proceeded to make clear. He’d been ‘one of us’ for years; he’d been ‘one of us’ before there was an ‘us’. He had his own grudge against Shinra. Dad had broken up his ancient university, asset-stripped the departments, and dumped on the street those academics for whom he had no use, like Braska.

All of a sudden Braska’s presence at the Gandara’s house-warming the previous year made a completely different kind of sense.

“Are your parents in on this too?” I asked her.

She gave me a scornful look. “Don’t be stupid.”

“Why am I here?”

“Because I thought you wanted to be. You don’t have to stay. Go if you want, but you won’t be asked again.”

_God, she’s slow, _I thought. “That’s not what I meant. What’s happened to change the Leader’s mind about me? I thought your people wanted nothing to do with me.”

“You’ve proved you know how to keep your mouth shut. He likes that.”

Dr Braska came in at that point, and Mercedes immediately clammed up. When he saw me, Braskers smiled and said, “Ah. Shinra. Good. Tea?”

His teapot was a beautiful old piece of Akisirisou porcelain, worth a fortune. He had a delicate teacup for Mercedes and two mugs for himself and me. Some really excellent fruitcake was cut and served to us on a chipped ten-gil plate. His teaspoons were solid silver and his sugar bowl was a repurposed jam-jar. I have been in some pretty strange predicaments in my life, but never before or since have I been in a situation so entirely surreal, with my venerable old history teacher sipping his tea on my left and the girl who’d given me a blow-job in a cinema stuffing cake down her throat on my right. The three conspirators. It felt like some bizarre dream.

When Mercedes had finished her tea, he told her she could go. I saw then that he’d set the whole thing up, arranging it so that I’d arrive before him, Mercedes would explain the situation to me, and I could either leave or stay. Braskers had the dotty professor routine down pat, but the mind inside was as sharp as ever.

He said, “I’m taking quite a risk, revealing myself to you.”

“I could say the same thing. I’m not as indispensable as you might think.”

He knew about Lazard, of course. Everybody knew. “Why _are_ you here, Rufus? If it’s nothing more than idle curiosity, you had better leave now.”

Interestingly, he didn’t say _if this is nothing more than your teen rebel phase, you can leave now_. Rebellious teenagers have always been Avalanche’s bread and butter.

I had no intention of leaving. I said, “I’m here for the same reasons you are.”

“That’s unlikely. You’re the most improbable recruit imaginable. You have everything to lose and nothing to gain, as far as I can see.”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m sure that’s exactly what it looks like, from the outside.”

Braska was authentic. I don’t doubt he honestly and sincerely believed that by recruiting me into Avalanche he was helping to make me a better person - and, by extension, helping the world. What a legacy that would be! He had a little bit of the Veld in him, I think. That itch to mould a king. Irresistible. I tend to bring it out in people - and after all, Braskers _was_ a teacher.

I asked him, “Do you really think my dad’s company can fall?” I didn’t see how he could believe it. He knew far too much history for that.

The war with Wutai was then just drawing to its close. Braska said the defeat of the world’s last remaining independent state, which we could all now see was inevitable, would mean the end to any viable overt resistance to Dad’s control of the planet. He, Braska, envisioned Avalanche as supplying that deficit. It would be the easiest thing in the world, he said, for Shinra to render Avalanche redundant, if they would only put in place some more accountable form of government with a legitimate opposition. A healthy government needs a healthy opposition, he told me, if it is not to grow lax and complacent, stupefied by its own infallibility.

All I needed to do was look at my old man to see that Braska was right. My fat, complacent old man. An object lesson indeed.

I liked how Braskers never, not once, even by accident, said “you” when he was talking to me about Shinra. He didn’t call me Shinra any more. He called me Rufus.

After we finished our tea, he gave me The Book. He warned me that I was still on probation; the Leader had taken an interest in me, and had asked him, Braska, to cultivate my mind. If I truly wanted to be accepted by Avalanche, I needed to put aside all my previous preconceptions and open myself to the truth.

That day was the first time I heard the name ‘Avalanche’. Triggered by something as small as a whisper, the unstoppable destructive power of the Avalanche gathers speed as it hurtles downhill, burying Shinra beneath the purity of its driven snow. Stupid bloody name. Grandiose. Pseudologous. I wondered if the Leader had chosen it himself. I was beginning to suspect the Leader might be a bit of a dick.

Braska had lent me books before, but this one was different. He put it into my hands, a weighty tome disguised beneath a paper cover and false, nonsensical title, _Mysteries of the Cetra, an Astrological Examination_. I looked inside and saw what the book was really about.

Braska told me I must never be caught reading it. Lives were at stake. Should that dread eventuality befall, I must deny all knowledge of the book’s provenance. I must never tell anyone that he’d given it to me or even that I’d found it at Penscombe. All copies should have been destroyed.

I hid the book at the bottom of my tuck box, taking it out at night to read under the blankets by the light of a torch, annoying my new room-mate, Johnny Casarini, who would grunt at me, “Stop fapping and put out the light, Shinra.” The book was hard to put down, well-written, pacey, and packed with vivid detail of various battles in the war that had made my family rich. No, that’s incorrect. The War of the Three Queens, the first war won with mako weapons, was the war that made us rich. The Great Grasslands War was the war that made us kings.

Poor Braska. He shouldn’t have trusted me. I was a kid, I got careless, I screwed up.

The book was a long one and my reading time was limited. By the middle of November I was only halfway through it, so when I left school for the short exeat I wrapped it carefully in my laundry bag, buried it among the clothes in my suitcase, and took it with me to our villa in Costa for the weekend. The next morning, before anybody else was up, I took it out to read on the patio. The paper cover had become quite badly torn from so much handling. It irritated me every time I turned a page. So I removed it. Unbeknownst to me, a paparazzo with a telephoto lens was working on a nearby rooftop. He sold the photo to _Midgar Life_ and also to _Leisure_ magazine; both published it on their front cover, and _Midgar Life_ added the headline “Student Prince!” I didn’t know about any of this. I’d gone back to school by that point. Penscombe didn’t allow us to read tacky lowbrow gossip magazines.

On the second of December, a date that is seared in my memory, I was doing prep in High Leckie when Dr Wiley came to find me. Dusk was closing in. Wiley wouldn’t tell me what was going on. He took me to his study, where Tseng was waiting for me. Tseng had never come on his own to see me at Penscombe before. It was a dream come true, but as a nightmare. He was holding Dr Braska’s book in his gloved hands.

Why hadn’t I heard the helicopter?

He said, “Where did you get this?”

I said, “I don’t know. That’s not mine. I’ve never seen that book before in my life,” while thinking frantically, _how did he know? How could he possibly know? Can he read my mind? _

He said, “You’ve been keeping it in the trunk under your bed. Your friend told us where to find it.”

Johnny Casarini. You dumped me in it and sealed Braska’s fate, but I can’t blame you. Tseng isn’t easy to lie to, unless, like me, you’ve had considerable practice.

He said, “I’d like you to tell me who gave this book to you.”

I said nothing.

His single raised eyebrow let me know that my stubbornness, while somewhat admirable, was ultimately futile. Opening the book, he turned to a page he’d previously marked, and showed me what he’d found there. In faded pencil, in the margin, a scribbled message, decades old: _Edgar, meet us at the Queen’s Head @ 7. MG _

There was only one Edgar in our school. Edgar Braska.

“Please don’t leave,” said Tseng to Dr Wiley, who was trying to edge himself out the door. My headmaster’s face crumpled; he looked ready to burst into tears. Tseng said, “Dr Braska will be here presently.”

“He didn’t give it to me,” I cried. “I stole it from his room. Tseng, I’m sorry -”

A commotion broke out in the corridors. Someone shouted, “Get the Turk.” Wiley’s study door was flung open by a young squaddy with a shaved head who exclaimed, “The old man’s dead, sir.”

“Damn it,” said Tseng, “Show me.”

The squaddy ran off down the corridor, Tseng ran after him, and I ran after Tseng because nobody tried to stop me. Dr Braska’s study was only around the corner. He lay on the rug, mouth open, eyes bulging as if he’d died gasping for breath. Tseng bent to feel his neck for a pulse.

In the distance, the sound of a helicopter approaching.

Tseng heard it, and straightened up. The squaddies were all looking at Tseng, waiting for him to tell them what to do. Death didn’t interest them, they’d seen it before. I hadn’t. I could not tear my eyes away. What had killed him? Fear? A heart attack? His skin was mottled, almost purple, the colour of cherries. Horrible, yet fascinating. He looked both like and unlike himself - like a waxwork copy. A thin trickle of blood was running out of his nostril into his grey moustache. How could it do that? How could blood continue to flow when the heart had stopped?

Because I was looking at him so closely, I noticed something the squaddies hadn’t noticed, something Tseng hadn’t had time to notice. A little glass vial, not empty, and almost completely hidden inside his clenched left fist. The tactics division of my brain whispered _You should take that, it might be useful_, so I bent down and swiped it.

“Don’t touch him,” said Tseng, rather absent-mindedly. What was he thinking about?

Nothing could have induced me to touch Braska again. He wasn’t cold but he was cooling, like an ember that had fallen out of the fire. Still so close to life, yet already so far away that there could be no returning. How strange to think that this very dead thing had been a living person mere minutes earlier, breathing, thinking, fearing, resolving to put a pill under his tongue.

Tseng said to the shaven-headed squaddy, “Take Master Shinra back to his rooms so he can collect his hound, and meet us at the landing point.”

I didn’t need to ask. I was being taken away from Penscombe, and this time I wouldn’t be coming back.

“Rufus?” 

He’s been sitting quietly all this time.

“Yes?”

“Braska gave this book to you, didn’t he? You didn’t steal it.”

What? Has he gone all this time believing my lie? “I thought you knew he gave it to me.”

“No. I considered the possibility, of course, but it seemed such an unlikely thing for him to do. Such a huge risk for him to take. I could see no reason why he would do that. We were focused on protecting you from kidnap or assassination. We never considered that Avalanche might try to recruit you. And you kept denying he’d given it to you, even after he was dead.”

“If I’d admitted he’d given it to me, you would have wanted to know why.”

“Oh, yes, I can see now why you denied it. And your story was believable. It wasn’t hard to imagine you helping yourself to a book off your teacher’s shelf precisely because you knew it was banned.”

I don’t know whether I should be flattered or offended. “So, why was it banned, Tseng?”

“The Commander told me it was because it had his name in it. His birth name.”

Well. I’m - gobsmacked. “Really? That’s the only reason?”

“Anyone who knew his real name could find his family.”

“Yes, I understand that. Even so. A total ban seems like a gross over-reaction.”

“I think - it was also too soon - “

“Too soon?”

“Too soon after the War. The Great War.”

“Too soon for what? Too soon for the truth to be told?”

“Truth is relative. You know that.”

“It’s not even hostile to Shinra. There’s some fair criticism, but overall it’s a balanced analysis.” 

Tseng sighs. “I haven’t read it. I wasn’t born when that book came out. If I’d thought your history teacher was going to take his own life over it, I’d have made sure he didn’t get the chance. Owning a banned book isn’t a capital offense. He’d have served five or six years, max. That’s why we assumed he must also have been responsible for the flyers. We thought he’d killed himself to protect his contacts.”

“But you took me out of school all the same.” My voice is trembling. Fine, let it. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to speak calmly about losing Penscombe. “Even though the person you suspected of being the enemy agent was dead and the danger, as far as you knew, had passed, you made me leave school anyway.”

“It was a bad time. The mass desertion in SOLDIER had only recently happened. Our suspicions of Lazard were growing. Several attempts had been made to break into the Shinra building. We’d lost contact with Marr in Banora. We didn’t know where Genesis would strike next. You were an obvious target. Walls are no obstacle to a - a man with wings. The Commander wanted to secure your safety.”

“So it’s Veld I have to thank, is it?”

“You must have known you were on borrowed time after the flyers incident. For your father, this book was the last straw. Rufus - “

He’s leaning in towards me, as if he wants to tell me a secret.

Or ask one. “Rufus, is that why you hate your father so much? Because he made you leave Penscombe? Is this why you decided to kill him? To punish him for making you leave?”

Yes it is, actually.

At first, anyway. The more I looked into it, the more I found other reasons.

My old man forced me to leave the place I loved most on earth, and I was powerless to stop him. He forced me onto a seat on the Board and into a role I hated and an existence of stifling tedium far away from my friends and just about everything that makes life worth living, and I was powerless to prevent any of it.

I have hated him all my life, but until he dragged me out of school it never crossed my mind to kill him. I would have been happy simply to escape from him. That’s what Penscombe was for me. Escape. He blocked that off. It was flight or fight.

When he took Penscombe away from me, without asking me what I wanted, without once saying _I’m sorry, son, I understand how hard this must be for you - _that was when I realised Mercedes was right: I’d never be free while he was alive. If I waited for natural causes to remove him, I might wait forever. He has the best doctors in the world. He could live to be a hundred, and by then I’d have become what Mercedes predicted, a fat balding carbon copy dressed in my father’s second-hand suits.

It’s either him or me. I finally understood this when he made me leave Penscombe.

“He took my freedom, Tseng. I wanted it back.”

Oh no. Mistake. That look on his face. Not good. I shouldn’t have been so honest; it’s brought out the benevolent uncle, and now he’s going to explain to me why I’m wrong.

“Penscombe wasn’t freedom, Rufus.”

“It was for me.”

Would you listen to the sulkiness creeping into my voice? I sound like a petulant six year old. I hate it. I hate it. But I can’t seem to stop it.

“Penscombe was a temporary vacation from your real life. You would have had to leave and take up your duties here eventually. It’s childish to resent your father for this. The kind of freedom you’re dreaming of - it’s an illusion.”

“No. It isn’t. It’s real. I’ve seen it.”

“Everybody dreams of that kind of freedom. People dream they can fly, too.”

“What do you mean, ‘kind of freedom’? There’s only one kind of freedom. It’s called freedom. And people _can_ fly. It’s why we invented helicopters. And what about Genesis?”

“Genesis was a monster. Human beings can only fly if they’re inside a structure that supports and protects them. How free were you at Penscombe, really? You had rules. You had a timetable. You wore a uniform. There were structures and obligations. It’s the same here. Our choice isn’t between freedom and slavery. It’s between order and chaos.”

Oh my god. He runs in his predestinate grooves. Why do I try? When will I learn? In a minute he’s going to tell me that true freedom can only be found in doing our duty.

I blame Veld. Veld did this to him.

I’m so sad, I can’t speak.

Yes I can. “Go away, Tseng.”

“We’re not finished.”

“We are for now. Go away, please.” _But come back_. No, Rufus, don’t say that.

He’s thinking it over. Should he force me to go on? Will that get him anywhere? Or should he meet me half-way, indulge me? Yes? No?

He nods. “All right. It’s almost dinner time anyway.”

He rises gracefully, turns to depart.

“Tseng - don’t forget the book.”

He picks it up. Turns it over. Hands it to me, saying, “You can keep it now.”


	17. Chapter 17

It’s Rude’s turn on meal duty today. What has he brought me? Meagre rations. Pasta in tomato sauce and an orange. Not my favourite; not the worst. Reno’s burnt toasted cheese sandwiches and over-ripe banana, that was the worst. I wouldn’t mind those fish and chips again. Dare I ask for them?

Rude’s sitting down. At my table. With me. He’s opening his mouth. Is he going to speak to me?

"Got a question for you.”

He is, he’s speaking to me! “What is it?”

“Did you set Avalanche on Nats?”

Nats. Natalya. Veld’s chief recruiter. Thirty-four when she died. That’s getting on for a hundred in Turk years. It happened up in Icicle Inn, right after she interviewed Mink. She was in the middle of a phone call with Veld when they attacked her. He had to listen. I was there when he took the call. So was Tseng. _That’s two in one month_, I thought. _Commander, you’re not looking after them very well._ I was furious with him for losing Marr. If he could lose Marr, if he could lose Natalya, he could lose Tseng.

“V.P., I asked you a question.”

“Natalya’s death was nothing to do with me.”

“Liar - “

He’s surging to his feet, reaching over the table. I don’t want to duck but I think my survival instincts might make me. One blow from him could cave my skull in. No - he’s grabbed my neck instead. To break it? He - Ow. Fuck. Fuck. Slamming my face into my dinner. Not enough pasta to cushion the blow. Bloody hell, the man-mountain can move. Stop grinding my face in it. I can’t get a grip on his wrists. I can’t breathe. I can’t. Is this it, is this how I die? Smothered in spaghetti?

No. Release. I breathe again. Is my nose broken? Are my teeth still in their sockets? Breathe. Breathe. He steps away. Any napkin on my tray? No. It’ll have to be my sleeve, then. Wipe the tomato sauce from my eyes and the blood from my split lip.

“It wasn’t me.” I’m gasping.

“I don’t believe you.”

Something’s up my nose. A piece of pasta. Gross. I blow it out, painfully. Rude cracks his knuckles. Menacingly.

“Natalya’s movements weren’t classified. They didn’t need my help to find her. She was a soft target. You know it’s true.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Did Veld tell you I was responsible?”

Silence. That’s a No, then. I think? “Rude, listen. You hate me. That’s fair enough. I earned it. I’ll own it. But I won’t be blamed for something I didn’t do. I never passed information to Avalanche about any of you. I swear it on - on my mother’s grave.”

He grunts. He’s not impressed. I’m the kind of person who plots to kill my own father; why would I think twice about taking my dead mother’s name in vain?

Let me try again. “I have nothing against any of you. You just… kept getting in my way.”

“ ‘Kill them all’, V.P.”

Yes, I did say that, didn’t I? What’s said cannot be unsaid; what’s heard cannot be unheard. _Kill them all. But not Tseng. _The fact that I didn’t really mean it is the merest of technicalities. I meant it when I said it. For about five seconds. On such butterfly moments do the fates of empires turn.

“I wasn’t responsible for Natalya’s death. Believe me or don’t believe me, it’s your choice.”

I think he does believe me. At any rate, it looks like he’s done with me for now. He’s leaving.

I’d better eat this food. Tseng makes such a fuss about it when my plate goes back untouched.

* * *

Natalya died three days before my first board meeting on the tenth of December. Her death was the top item on the agenda.

I showed up for the meeting wearing surfing shorts, deck shoes and a cotton jersey, a rather tragic piece of Mercedes-style defiance that received the short shrift it deserved. Oh, Dad got the message all right. “Don’t play the fool, boy. This is business. One of our Turks is dead. Go put on a suit.” And I did. I did what he told me to do. I went back to my flat and I changed into one of my suits. Not the same suit he was wearing, but it might as well have been.

The meeting opened with Veld’s status report on the investigation into Natalya’s death. Very little was known, he said, but it seemed a group called Avalanche was claiming responsibility.

I froze in my seat.

“Bloody murdering toerags,” said my father. “Who the hell are these people, Veld?”

Did Veld mean _my _Avalanche? Mercedes’ and Dr Braska’s Avalanche? I felt hot all over. My mind was buzzing, as if it had switched into overclock mode the way it sometimes did when I was writing an exam or playing chess.

“We’re not sure,” said Veld. “About this time last year we raided a samizdat printing press in Sector Seven - “

“Oh, yes,” Scarlet interrupted, “The one where they all got away.”

Veld ignored her. “That group might have been called Avalanche. It was the name on the flyers we found at the premises.”

I didn’t remember seeing _Avalanche_ on any of Mercedes’ flyers. They must have been printing a new batch.

“Flyers? The same as the flyers at Rufus’ school?” Dad turned to me. “My god, son. Look at him, Veld, he’s gone white as a sheet. What are you _doing_ about this?”

“There may be a connection with the flyers at Rufus’ school. We don’t know anything for certain. The individual responsible for the flyers took his own life before we could question him. As far as we know, he was acting alone.”

It had started as a game. It had become a means of giving my old man the two fingers. And now Braska and Natalya were dead.

“It’s quite a leap to go from printing propaganda to murdering Turks,” said Reeve.

Veld said, “We’re pulling in everyone we think might have a connection, but so far we’ve not had much joy - “

If this Avalanche was _my _Avalanche, and they could kill a Turk, then surely they’d be able to kill one fat bombastic old fuckwad who took pleasure in ruining the lives of everyone around him.

“I don’t want excuses!” Dad shouted. “I want action. They were in Rufus’ school, for Shiva’s fucking sake. My _son_ could have been the one in the mortuary right now. Do your fucking job, Veld.”

And so it went on. Nobody expected or wanted me to say anything, which suited me perfectly. I kept my eyes open and my mouth shut. Lazard didn’t talk much either. He was an earnest listener. Obsequiously so. Probably he was glad the suspicion hadn’t fallen on him and his renegade SOLDIERs, for a change.

I’d never seen any of the other Directors at work before. I’d only known them socially, when they came to dinner or we went to some function together or they dropped in at the tennis club. That day, I saw a new side to all of them. Reeve Tuesti, so much admired at Penscombe as a visionary urban planner, seemed to be away with the fairies half the time. I wondered if he’d downed a couple of tranqs to get through the meeting. I wouldn’t have blamed him, though taking drugs before important meetings didn’t strike me as a very adult thing to do.

Heidegger, also so much admired as a hero of the Great Grasslands War, sat in the seat next to me. He smelt faintly of whiskey and brayed nervously every time someone, usually either Veld or Scarlet, disagreed with my old man. Uncle Roland has always been several bricks short of load - even Aunt Pansy agrees and he’s her brother - so I wasn’t expecting much from that direction, but his complete and utter inability to keep up with the discussion took me aback all the same. And what a revelation to discover that Scarlet is the master of the blistering put-down. When I was young, she used to be my favourite Director; she was clever and sarcastically funny and occasionally stood up to my Dad. She’d always been friendly to me, but then, I’d never been anything but a schoolboy before. My appointment to the Board was bound to disturb the balance of power. She intended to make sure I knew my place.

And what was my place? I could play Dad’s Yes-man. I’d be better at it than Heidegger. I wouldn’t grate on everyone’s nerves with a stupid horse-laugh. But Dad didn’t want another Yes-man. He already had a Humble Apprentice in Lazard. What he needed was someone who would challenge him. A worthy opponent. He wanted me to do it. That’s why I was there.

Actually, now that I think about it, maybe what he was looking for in me was what Dr Braska would have called ‘legitimate opposition’. Well. Interesting thought.

The discussion about this potential new threat called ‘Avalanche’ came to an end acrimoniously, with nothing having been resolved, and we moved on to the next item on the agenda. The longer I sat at that table, the angrier I became. None of them cared about Natalya. Veld could always hire more Turks. But not at the cost of their own budget! All they cared about was themselves and their petty principalities.

They resented having to make room for a teenager at their table. None of them cared that I ought to have been in school. While I sat in that velvet armchair listening to Scarlet declaim the weapons’ department quarterly financial statement as if it were some kind of avant-garde poetry, Chem 5 was going on without me. I’d had the best seat in the lab. Now some other lucky bastard was sitting in it. A new Under-16s rugby captain would be chosen to wear my armband. The chess team would find a replacement for their star player. Johnny would be given a new room-mate who wouldn’t keep him up at night reading. Alex had new friends already. Allegra would continue to ‘forget’ to eat, Kitty would add new scars to her arms, and Mercedes would go on hating me for Braska’s death. I was drowning in the well of my hate. The waters were closing over my head.

It was wrong, what Dad did to me. I was _fifteen years old. _

When the meeting finally, finally ended, he told me, “We’ll be making an official announcement next week. Vice-President of Shinra, Inc. Sounds good, doesn’t it? I’ve waited a long time for this, son. To have you at my side.”

_Fuck off_, _old man. Leave me alone. _

“I was going to wait until you’d turned sixteen, but - well, you needn’t think your education’s finished just because you’re out of school. Plenty to learn here. A company like this doesn’t run itself.”

“Does any business run itself?”

“What? Oh, yes, haha. Very sharp. Ah, here’s Danica. She’s going to be your personal assistant. Wendy handpicked her. She’ll show you your office. I’ve had them put your name on the door.”

The moment I saw her I knew she’d been chosen by Dad. She was entirely his type: blonde, curvy, heavily made up, early twenties. I don’t know if she was intended as some sort of welcome gift, but I do know he intended me to use her the way he used his harem of a typing pool, a little peccadillo of his that Wendy pretended not to know about. I know this, because for the first couple of weeks she worked for me, Danica tried her best to seduce me. She put her whole heart into it, as per the President’s instructions. Eventually I told her to please stop or I’d sack her, and after that we got on very well together. She had a boyfriend at home.

I sat in that chill lifeless office full of expensive tropical hardwood furniture and state of the art electronics and empty bookshelves, and two paintings from Dad’s flat that I’d never liked, and I stared down through the bomb-proof windows at my father’s city, and I planned my campaign of resistance.

I picked up the phone. “Danica, I need an appointment with a tailor. Not the President’s, not Trimbridge. A different tailor. Someone young, someone just starting out. Can you find a tailor like that for me?”

“I absolutely can, Mr Vice-President, Sir!”

I didn’t enjoy that year’s Winterfest holidays. Seeing my friends again was bitter-sweet. Listening to their Penscombe gossip made me feel like the ghost at the feast. Yet they seemed very glad to see me. Kitty hugged me. She and Alex and I had some good talks, just like old times. They called me the lucky one. _You’ve escaped from the mouldy old Penitentiary. You’re living your life! How does it feel to be running the world? _

So fucking dreary, you have no conception.

They told me Mercedes was spending the holiday up in Icicle Inn, so I informed Dad I was taking the day off to go snowboarding. Not that it really mattered, since I was entirely surplus to the requirements of any real work going on in our building. I cornered her in the Turbo Bar, where she was having a cosy drink with some maths club type from Attica House. A snowball, if I remember correctly. Maybe he was doing her maths prep now? I told him to sling his hook. My Turk Knox looked on approvingly from the far side of the room while I turfed him out and took his seat.

“I’m not talking to you,” she said.

“We need to talk,” I said, “Now.”

“Oh, my, aren’t we the masterful one now we’re deputy in charge of the entire fucking planet. You murderer.”

“I didn’t do it. Not on purpose. I didn’t betray him.”

“Liar. Look at you now. You got your reward. Go away. Or I’ll scream.”

And I said, “Go ahead. Scream. Who do you think is going to come to your rescue?”

It was the kind of line we used to come up with when we were playing Turk and Ninja.

I said, “We’re not at Penscombe now, Mercedes.”

My voice sounded different in my ears. Not my own voice, not my schoolboy voice. I sounded like Veld. Astonishing. And, to be honest, a little thrilling, too.

Her lip trembled.

I couldn’t stop myself. I said, “You can talk to me or you can talk to my Turk,” and was amazed by how much more menacing those words could sound when spoken softly in the middle of a busy bar.

“I hate you!” She hit me on the cheek, no ladylike slap but a well-aimed punch, luckily with little force behind it. Mercedes was never a sporty girl. I grabbed her wrist. Knox took a couple of steps forward. I waved him away.

She was trying to wriggle out of my grip, but I couldn’t afford to let her go. I needed her. She swung her other fist at me and I caught that too. “Just listen to me,” I whispered. “I didn’t betray Braska. It was an accident, a stupid accident. I was careless - “

“Careless!” There were tears in your eyes.

“Keep your voice down. Be sensible, Mercedes. If anyone overhears us, the one who’ll be up to their eyeballs in shit is you, not me.”

“You’re not sorry,” she whispered.

“You don’t know how I feel. Are you the one who had to see his dead body? No. So shut up.”

She gulped. “He was a good person.”

“I know. I know that. Mercedes, I need to know what I have to do to put things right.”

The tears were running down her cheeks. “Can you bring him back to life?”

“This isn’t a game to me. I’m serious. Are you serious? Didn’t you know when you got into this that people could die? Braska’s dead, and now one of our Turks is dead. So far, the score is even.”

“Pia said you were dangerous, and she was right.”

“But you recruited me anyway.”

“Because The Leader approved you.”

“Talk to him - “

“Not me!”

“Please, Mercedes. You saw the pictures in the magazines. It wasn’t my fault. I made a mistake, but it wasn’t deliberate. I’m still on your side. Just stop and think for a minute about what I could do for you. You always need money, don’t you? I’ll be sixteen soon. I’ll have control of my Palmer inheritance. Talk to the Leader for me. Tell him I’m willing to prove myself. He can ask me for something. Anything. I’ll do it. Please, Mercedes. Please help me. Don’t let Braska have died in vain. I feel so guilty…”

Her face crumpled. Was I laying it on a bit too thick? I thought she was going to tell me to go fuck myself, but instead she burst into tears and threw her arms around my neck. “Oh, Rufe! I feel so guilty too! He was my favourite teacher!”

“Sssh… “ I held her tight, muffling her sobs against my shirt so that Knox wouldn’t overhear any careless words she might utter.

We parted on better terms than we had met. Before I left, she said, “Will I see you at Johnny’s party next week? I’ll have an answer for you by then.”

If the Leader turned me down, what would I do? Should I cut my losses, revert to Plan A, shop Mercedes and Pia to Veld and claim the credit for my undercover detective work? I was seriously considering it. If they thought they owed me nothing, after all the money I’d given them, then I owed them nothing either.

At Johnny’s party she steered me into one of the bedrooms, shut the door, and told me she’d spoken to Pia and Pia had spoken to the Leader and word had come back down the chain of command that he wanted me to give them the pass codes for the No. 1 reactor. “Why?” I said. “What’s he going to use them for?” She said they were planning a day of action: reactor shut-down, sector wide blackout. A gesture designed to raise awareness of the crisis facing the planet. 

I believed her. Their plan made sense, it was in line with everything else I knew about their goals, and she sounded sincere. Since then, though, I’ve come to understand that a man like Fuhito doesn’t confide his intention to massacre an entire city sector to an idealistic teenage girl who can’t even kill her own spiders.

However, there were some gaping flaws in their plan. “Is the Leader _insane_?” I said. “Does he have any idea how much security we have around those reactors? Nobody can get in there. The pass codes will get you through the gates, but they won’t help you against PSM. Or the robots.”

“Leave that to us. Can you get the codes or not?”

“I can get them, but don’t you dare say I didn’t warn you.”

“Yes, fine, okay. Also, Rufus, the Leader said you need to give the pass codes to Pia. Not to me.” Her voice wobbled a little as she said this. Clearly the Leader didn’t trust her not to screw up. Maybe he wasn’t quite such a lunatic as I’d thought.

“So,” she said, “When can you get them? I’ve got to go back to school tomorrow and Pia’s going back to JuTech.”

“Will the Leader wait until my birthday? If Pia comes to my party, I can give her the codes then. But you’ll have to use them immediately. They change every forty-eight hours.”

“That’ll have to do, I suppose. Don’t let us down, Little Prez. The Leader said this is your last chance. Sick suit, by the way.”

“Thank you. I designed it myself.”

“Yeah. Looks like it. Ask for my help next time.” She kissed me on the cheek and left.


	18. Chapter 18

I’ve finished reading Braska’s book.

I know I told Tseng to go away last time but I do think he could have come back by now. He’s letting more and more time go by between each visit. Is he busy with other work? Am I boring him? Has he given up on me? Does he no longer believe I can tell him anything useful? Does he think he can crack this case all by himself?

Rather naively, when they first put me in here I assumed I’d be out in a few days. Exactly how long ago that was, I don’t know, but since Tseng’s last visit I’ve started doing what I should have done from the beginning: I make a little scratch on the wall with my plastic fork every time they bring me breakfast. Breakfast is made of breakfast food; that’s how I know it’s morning outside. Toast and jam. Eggs and bacon. Hot cinnamon-flavoured instant semolina porridge. Once, a kipper. At least, it’s my assumption that they serve me breakfast at breakfast time. For all I know, they could only be bringing me breakfast once every forty-eight hours. I never feel hungry. It’s not as if I’m burning many calories in here. I wish I had a rowing machine. Or a treadmill. And a chess board. That would be nice.

It’s been four breakfasts since I saw him.

Might as well try to sleep now. I can start re-reading the book when I wake up.

.

We’re on the yacht. The crew have all jumped overboard. It’s up to me to sail this ship. But I can’t get it right. I keep oversteering. Cliffs ahead! Tseng grabs me by both shoulders and shakes me. “Wake up, Rufus.”

Am I asleep? I am asleep - I _was_ asleep. Fuck, it was only a dream.

“Tseng. What time is it?”

“It’s three o’clock in the afternoon. You can’t sleep the day away like this.”

“What else is there to do?”

“Come on. Get up.”

Ugh, I feel all cramped up. There’s a crick in my back. “When am I getting my new bed?”

“Soon.”

I don’t know if I believe him. I don’t think he’d lie to me, but I do think he might feel I haven’t yet earned an upgrade in my creature comforts. One day the bed will appear - _bing! Your reward! _ \- and I’ll know I’ve levelled up in his estimation.

He’s gone over to sit at the table. I suppose I have to join him.

He frowns at me. At the state I’m in. My bed hair. “Aren’t you going to get dressed?”

“Why, are we going out?”

“You can’t live in pyjamas all day. You’re not sick. Go put some clothes on.”

Do I want to fight him over this or do I want to put some clothes on? Decisions, decisions… My heart says defy him but my head says cooperate and maybe I’ll earn some concessions. All right, clothes it is! What treasures await me in the clean clothes basket? Grey corduroys and a black cashmere polo-neck. That’ll do.

I don’t know why he’s making me feel so self-conscious. I must have got changed in front of him a thousand times. He’s seen it all. But I’ve never been his prisoner before. Completely at his mercy. That adds a certain - what would you call it? - a certain _frisson_ to the situation -

He’s not even looking! He’s not looking, and he’s not doing that trying-not-to-look thing either. He’s staring off into space as if nothing could be of less interest to him than my body. As if he’s thinking about something else entirely.

I sit down opposite him. “Am I dressed for business now?”

“You need a hair cut. And a shave. I’ll arrange an electric razor for you. Mink will come and cut your hair later.”

Just what I want, an angry Turk coming at my head with a grudge and a pair of scissors. If I lose an ear, Tseng, it’ll be your fault.

Oh, I need a stretch. “What are we going to chat about today, boss?” Stretching feels good.

“I understand you told Rude you played no part in Natalya’s murder. Is that correct?”

“Yes. That’s what I told him. And also yes, it’s the truth.”

“You started giving financial support to Avalanche in the year 1990, yes?”

“That’s what I said.”

“When did you start passing them information?”

“The first time was at my sixteenth birthday party, when I gave Pia the Number One reactor codes.”

“That was you, was it?”

“Obviously.”

“The day after they tried to blow up the reactor, they attacked Junon and made three attempts to assassinate the President. Was that on your orders?”

I can’t help chuckling. “Oh, I wish.”

Maybe that came out as more of a snigger than a chuckle. Tseng’s not amused. We have no time for levity in the Department of Administrative Research!

“Was it, Rufus?”

“I don’t know how many more times I have to tell you. I did not give orders in Avalanche. Unless you mean in the sense of _placing_ an order. I ordered a service from them. I paid up front for it. They never delivered.”

“Were their attempts on the President’s life in Junon carried out at your request?”

“No. At that time I had not met Fuhito and I had not made any requests. I was still trying to establish my credentials.”

“So when you gave them the passcodes for the reactor, that’s what you were doing? Building credibility?”

“Yes.”

“And how did that work out for you?”

Do I detect a note of sarcasm? “I’d say the outcome was neutral. I provided what they asked for. The passcodes were good. I warned them about the security. They didn’t listen. Pia asked me if I could have the security pulled or reduced, but of course that was impossible. I told her it was above my pay grade.”

Oh, look, he’s trying not to smile.

“I know,” I say, “It’s funny, isn’t it? Because I don’t actually have a pay grade. Or a salary. I’ve never earned a round gil in my life. It’s all been handed to me on a plate.”

“Your endless self-pity is becoming tedious, Rufus.”

Ouch. Crushing.

He says, “Do you really think you are the one we ought to feel sorry for?”

Come on now. I was only trying to make him laugh.

Is that what he actually thinks, though? He thinks I feel sorry for myself? Does he think I did all this because I was - what? _Peeved_? My old man will burn the world down if someone doesn’t stop him. And Tseng thinks I feel sorry for _myself_?

Can’t let it crush me. Must push back. “Well, not the only one, obviously.”

“Over a hundred people died in the twin attacks on Midgar and Junon. And that’s not counting Avalanche’s casualties.”

“I know, Tseng, I read the reports at the time.”

“You don’t care? That doesn’t bother you?”

Listen to him. He’s stolen Mercedes’ line. “Did my old man care when he gave Zack Fair to Hojo? Did he care when he burnt Corel? I guess I’m just a chip off the old block. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

Just once, you know, just _once _I’d like him to turn around and say to me _You don’t really mean that, Rufus_. When I tell him the truth, he accuses me of lying, and then I trot out this bullshit and he swallows it without question.

I know what he and Veld wanted from me, what they hoped to turn me into; what, perhaps, he still hopes for, once we’re over this little stumbling block. Their dream President. Their philosopher-king. I know that’s why Veld always fought my corner, why he worked so hard to undermine Lazard, why he did what he could to keep me at Penscombe. Despite all appearances to the contrary, my fake dad never abandoned his boyhood dream of leaving this world a better place than he found it.

But Tseng - I think he’s reached the point where he actively expects me to disappoint him. Does he have any idea how much that hurts me? Why is he always so quick to think the worst of me? Why does he have a hard time believing I care? Does he really not know how much his opinion matters to me? How important he is to me?

He says, “Did you know about - Elfé?”

His difficulty with her name was almost imperceptible, but I heard it, because I know him so well. I’m not the only one in this room who suffers from jealousy.

“Did I know Fuhito had a female Sephiroth hidden up his sleeve? No. I found out the same way you did, watching the Junon CCTV.”

“Did you know she was, is, the Commander’s daughter?”

“I told you before, no. That was a complete revelation.”

“Did you ever meet her?”

“No. But I had a dream in which I did.”

After the Legend blew up their headquarters in Wutai and Veld told us Avalanche was finished and their leaders dead; when I thought all was lost, my money, the planning, the lives, everything, wasted - I had a dream in which the four of us, Shears, Elfé, Fuhito and I, were standing on the great hand of Da Chao. Fuhito said, It’s all working out just as we planned. Elfé said, Too many sacrifices have been made, and I said, But sacrifices are necessary. I looked over the edge of the rock. It was a long way down, with death at the bottom. No Turks to catch me. If I slipped, I’d be finished.

I’ve never been to Wutai. Nor, I suppose, am I ever likely to.

Tseng’s not interested in my dream. We’re moving on. “There are some things I’d like to clear up regarding Dr Wilbraham.”

Oh yes, the lab technician who got caught passing materia formulae to Avalanche. I was wondering when we’d get around to him. This could take a while. I’m sure Tseng has a hundred questions.

“Was he a member of your cell?”

“I was never in any cell, Tseng. Unless you want to call Mercedes, Braska, and me a cell. I wasn’t an active agent. That wasn’t my role. I had scarcely any direct contact with Fuhito. Everything went through Pia. I had no other contacts. I’ve explained this to you before. I couldn’t tell you which of our employees were or are Avalanche operatives. I was not trusted with that information, nor did I need it. Until he so carelessly brought himself to your attention, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that we even had a scientist called Wilbraham in the weapons department.”

“He wasn’t acting on your orders?”

“Are you even listening to me?”

“Then how did you know we’d caught him?”

“Pia told me.”

“Pia told you?”

“Yes. Check the phone transcripts.”

Here’s what he’ll find:

Pia: _Rufus, it’s me, Pia. Pia Gandara. Mercedes’ sister._

Me: (sounding a little surprised, since Pia had never called me before. I always called her.) _Oh. Pia. Hullo. How can I help you?_

Pia: (breathing fast; there’s obviously some kind of trouble afoot) _I need a little favour. A friend of mine is, he’s, uh, he’s lost in your building. He’s got himself stuck on the wrong floor. Can you help him?_

Me: (obtusely)_ I can send someone. What’s his name._

Pia: ……..

Pia: _His name is uh - uh - uh - Pigeon. Mr Pigeon. As in stool-pigeon. Now don’t be_ RUDE_, Rufus. He’s a good friend of mine, so go yourself._

It became obvious to me after this phone call that we needed better code words. Nevertheless, lightbulb moment.

It was in this very room that I found Pia’s Pigeon. I was honestly expecting to see the The Leader himself bound and gagged in the interrogation chair, so learning the captive bird was merely one of our own lab techs was a bit of a disappointment. On the other hand, it simplified things for me. I knew what I had to do. I just didn’t know if I could do it.

“Why did Pia call you and not one of their other operatives?”

“Presumably because none of their other operatives had a keycard that gave access to this room.”

“You said you’d come to watch me work.”

“I had to give some reason for being there.”

Tseng’s handiwork wasn’t a pretty sight. I’d known it wouldn’t be, but knowing something theoretically and seeing it in cold blood are two different things. Wilbraham lifted his head when I came in. His eyes pleaded with me. _Help me. This Turk is trying to kill me_.

“Did Pia tell you to eliminate him?”

“No. She didn’t tell me to do anything. She was desperate and out of options.”

“What did she think you could do, then?”

“Cause a diversion? Help him escape? Order you to release him? Shoot him in the head? I don’t know what she was thinking.”

I looked at the bloody mess strapped to the interrogation chair and I thought, _Whose names does he know? Does he know my name? _

“Did Pia give you the cyanide?”

“No, I got it from Dr Braska.”

Ah, that’s rocked him. He’s astonished. He’s appalled. “That old man gave you cyanide pills?”

“It was in his hand when he died. A tiny bottle. Two pills left. You didn’t notice it. I swiped it.”

He’s grimacing, covering his face with his hand. Mentally kicking himself.

“There’s a lot you didn’t see, Tseng.” That came out wrong. I meant to sound consoling. Not even his Turk eyes can be everywhere at once.

Now his hand is pressed to his forehead. “I can’t believe you kept them.”

“Why wouldn’t I keep them? I knew they’d come in useful sooner or later.”

“So when Pia called you, you thought to yourself, I know what I’ll do, I’ll poison him?”

“No, I just - “ What _was_ I thinking? I don’t precisely remember. “Braska took cyanide when you wanted to question him. This seemed like the same situation. Helping Wilbraham escape was out of the question, and you weren’t going to stop interrogating him on my say-so.”

“But Rufus - “

He wants to say, _but Rufus, you killed him_. He can’t because he knows how absurd it would sound, coming from him.

I don’t know which bothers him more, the fact that I gave that poor technician poison, or my apparent lack of remorse for my part in his death.

They have a saying in this department: _we get our hands dirty so other people won’t have to. _And by other people, they mean me. Or they used to. Their baby philospher-king. He thinks - or at any rate, he used to think - that he and I are two completely different orders of being. In his mind there’s a big black line down the middle with him on the dark side and me on the light.

He used to think I was selfish, difficult, arrogant, and whimsical, but also, fundamentally, innocent. That’s the real reason he beat me half to death with his belt buckle - not just for betraying Veld, but for betraying his belief in me. He believed me when I lied to him about Braska’s book. He believed I just happened to wander into their interrogation room at the very moment when he was coincidentally extracting information from the only Avalanche operative they’ve ever managed to take alive. Even after he knew the pill was cyanide, he believed me when I told him I’d found it in Hojo’s labs. Even now, he still can’t quite believe fifteen-year-old me was capable of deliberately compassing a man’s death. And yet Rosalind’s been teaching me how to shoot to kill since I was ten years old.

“It was self-defense,” I say.

“You silenced him. To protect yourself.”

“You were going to kill him anyway.”

“What would you have done if you hadn’t had the cyanide?”

“I’d have thought of something else. But I did have it. I didn’t have a clear plan in mind when I came down here. I brought the cyanide just in case. As soon as I saw him, though, it was obvious he was going to die one way or another. Your way is - slow. Cyanide is quick. I thought if I told you it was a truth pill you might let me give it to him myself.”

“You should never have been issued with a key card that let you into this room.”

“And you hustled me out so fast I didn’t have a chance to get anywhere near him. That’s why I left it with you. Did you really think it was Hojo’s truth serum?”

“I thought you were playing a game. I thought it was probably aspirin.”

“But you gave it to him. I didn’t think you’d do that.”

“I thought it couldn’t do any harm.”

Veld beat him black and blue for losing Wilbraham. I received a very stern talking to from my old man about never, ever going alone into Hojo’s lab again.

When I’m President, the first thing I’m going to do is sack Hojo. And then I’ll let Tseng arrest him. Tseng will enjoy that. He and Zack Fair were friends.

“A truth drug seemed to me like the kind of thing the science department would make,” I say. “I had no idea they were really trying to make one. Did you know? Is that why you gave it to him?”

A slight shake of his head is all the answer I’m getting “You said you took two pills from Braska. Where’s the other one?”

“In my dressing room. Under the insole of my left trainer. The Coast Runners.”

He’s bending his head while he writes in his notebook. He doesn’t need to make a note. He’ll remember. He’s giving himself time to think, and hiding his face from me while he does it.

Perhaps he’s reflecting on the fact that we live in a world where a fifteen year old boy understands the necessity of feeding cyanide to a prisoner and is prepared to do it. No, he’s probably blaming himself again. Should have double-checked Braska’s corpse. Should have advised Veld to withdraw the boy’s keycard privileges. Should have monitored his calls more closely. Should have shot Wilbraham as soon as he was taken into custody…

Mercedes’ normal was not my normal, but at least I know what normal is. I know my life isn’t normal. If I’d been born to a different father or in a different time I wouldn’t have had to do all these things and I could have become a different person, maybe even the person Tseng and the old Turk wanted me to be. If I’d had a choice, I wouldn’t have chosen this reality. But I didn’t get a choice. And I don’t make the rules. When I do, they’ll be different.

“Rufus, were you responsible for the attack on our recruiting ship at Junon on the eighteenth of March, 2001?”

Evidently he’s finished with Wilbraham. Press on, press on.... “No, I wasn’t. Someone else gave them that information.”

“Were you responsible for Hollander’s raid on this building in April of that year?”

“Lazard was Hollander’s catspaw, not me. I never had anything to do with SOLDIER.”

“Were you responsible for the Chelsea incident?”

“No. To the best of my knowledge, she seduced Rude on her own initiative. I think she, like me, was trying to establish her credentials. Do something that would make The Leader notice her. Aside from money, all Avalanche got from me that year were the reactor codes and the information about the data disk. Fuhito was very insistent about the data disk. It was the one thing he specifically asked me for. Listen, Tseng - you won’t make up for everything you missed previously by assuming now that my hand must have been in every misfortune that’s afflicted this company over the last three years. As you’re so fond of reminding me, Shinra has many enemies. And sometimes, you know, bad luck is simply bad luck.”

Are my words sinking in? Let’s hope so. They may need time to percolate.

He says, “After the data disk incident, Commander Veld told me he suspected we had an S-level mole.”

“Who did he think it was? Let me guess. Lazard? No, too obvious. Reeve?”

“We kept an open mind.”

“Not quite open enough, though. Shall I tell you something? Dad thought it was Veld.”

Oh, but I’m wasting my breath. Veld’s in the same protected category as his slum angel. No discussion permitted. He thinks his pseudo-dad would be home by now if I hadn’t told my Dad that Elfé is Veld’s daughter. He explicitly asked me not to tell Dad. I told him anyway. The long-lost, presumed-dead Felicia Verdot… Veld’s rushed off to rescue her, his flesh and blood offspring, from Fuhito’s clutches, leaving his foster-child Tseng holding the unwanted and unloved bastard baby that is my old man’s order to hunt Veld down and kill him. They’ll never do it. They’d kill Dad before they’d kill Veld. Dad really must be going senile. First rule of ruling: never give an order you know for a fact your subordinates will refuse to carry out.

He says, “The Wilbraham incident was what persuaded Fuhito to trust you.”

“Yes. It proved to him I was willing to do whatever what necessary.”

“So it was after the Wilbraham incident that Pia approached you to arrange a meeting?”

“And I invited him to the Moonlily Ball. Which brings us back to where we started.”

His phone’s buzzing. Perfect timing. He’s checking the message. Work work work, so much to do, must dash, sorry. He’s getting to his feet, putting the phone away.

Not so fast, Turk. I have a question of my own. “Tseng - “

“Yes?”

“If you hadn’t fed Wilbraham the cyanide pill I gave you, Fuhito would never have agreed to meet me, and none of this would have happened. Do you ever think about that?”

He’s hesitating. Will he answer?

“It haunts me.”

He tells me this, and then he turns away? “Tseng - “

Reluctantly he turns back. “What, Rufus?”

Yes, what? What do I want? What can I say?

“Tseng, could I - could you let me have some more books, please?”

He’s leaving, speaking as he goes, “Mink will bring you something when she comes to cut your hair.”


	19. Chapter 19

Are my wall scratches correct? Has it only been two days since Tseng’s last visit? It feels as if much more time has passed. Perhaps I forgot to make the breakfast mark a couple of times. That’s probably what happened.

Mink brought me some books from my apartment. I’d have preferred ones I haven’t read before, but beggars can’t be choosers. She must have grabbed the first three that came to hand. The fawning _Mako Money_ by Dad’s pet economist Prosper Seneschal; _The Frog’s Last Song_ by Dorothy Lang, which is a children’s book, and Jet Pole’s _Kingsglaive_, a fantasy novel set in an alternative universe that Alex lent me years ago and I forgot to return. None of them books I particularly like. I’ve re-read all three of them now. I don’t know if I could stand reading any of them for a third time.

Is Tseng punishing me for something? Is that why he doesn’t come? Punishing me for what, though? I didn’t lie to him once in our last session. I answered all his questions. Is it because he’s still smarting over Wilbraham? I can’t believe it’s only been two days. Maybe I should start counting my sleeps as well. At least I have my new bed now, so he can’t be _that_ angry with me. Tys and Skeeter put it together. Of course it fell apart under me the first time I got into it, but that feels like progress. It’s the kind of prank they’d pull on each other. I hope they enjoyed a good laugh on the other side of that mirror.

I wish I knew what time it was. It feels so disorienting to be lost in time like this. As if I’m the one trapped in an alternate universe, where time stands still. Tseng travels between this universe and his own using the _swish_ door as his portal. I could write my own fantasy fiction. It would kill some time. I wish they’d restore my Shinranet privileges. Even if they limit me to read-only. At least I’d be able to tell the time. See what today’s date is.

Maybe I should stop procrastinating and do this task Mink has set me. Maybe that’s what Tseng’s waiting for.

She told me Tseng wants a diagram of my money laundering operations. From her hands I received this paper and this packet of pens. Treasures.

Money laundering. Were those his exact words? I doubt it. Tseng uses words precisely. Money laundering makes dirty money clean. Under the plate Don Corneo siphons off our mako energy and launders the profits through the Honeybee Inn, and we allow him to do this because he keeps order down there. My money, on the other hand, began life as clean money, vast swathes of pristine money, that need to find its way, by devious and untraceable conduits, into the grubby hands of my false ally Fuhito.

Our Turks are outraged by the sums of money I gave to Avalanche. Was it their money? It was my money. It wasn’t even company money. It was money my mother left for me to do with as I saw fit. Reno and the others accuse me of not knowing the value of money, and probably in the sense they mean of _needing_ money for something, food, clothing, shelter, whatever, of course they’re right, I don’t know how it feels like to care about money in that way. I don’t carry gil on me the way they do. Tys has a habit of jingling the coins in his pocket. He finds the sound reassuring, I suppose.

If I’d come from where they come from, I’m sure I’d be the same. I’d be protective of my money because I’d fought for it. And I _would_ have fought for it. You don’t have to go to Penscombe to be someone who gives orders. You’re born that way. I’ve got everything going for me: I’m intelligent, good-looking, fit, hard-working - the full package. I could eat rat if I had to. I’m not squeamish. If I’d been born in the slums like Lazard, I would have found my own way out. I would never, ever have demeaned myself accepting a helping hand from the father who had abandoned me. Look around the Plate, look around this building, you’ll see hundreds of people who have worked their way up from nothing without anyone pulling strings on their behalf. If they can do it, so could I. I would have _preferred_ it.

But I wasn’t given the choice.

Back then, when Dad ripped me out of Penscombe to become his Vice-President, a position which had never hitherto existed, he made vague promises to me about continuing my education. I fatuously imagined some sort of rotating internship, half a year in each department, doing grunt work, learning the ropes from the bottom up. I wouldn’t have totally hated a program like that. It would have allowed me to keep some self-respect. But it didn’t happen.

Instead, I became a sort of de facto assistant chief operating officer in charge of finances.

I must have been eleven when our previous Director of Finance, Kwame Gilgamesh, was invited by Veld to put a hole in his head or let Tseng do it for him. Gilgamesh was quite the embezzler, but what really had my old man baying for his blood was the way he spent his stolen gil. I first heard the term _rent-boy _from eavesdropping on Dad’s rant to Veld. And _catamite_. “How many times have I shaken that filthy hand of his?” Dad roared. “Just thinking about it makes me want to disinfect myself. Disgusting moff. What do I always say, Veld? Can’t trust ‘em. Bent. Bent all the way through. Sneaking, lying, thieving pervert. Hanging’s too good for him…”

_Rent-boy_ was not in the dictionary. _Catamite_ was. I read the definition and my blood ran cold. That wasn’t me. I would never be that thing.

Gilgamesh hanged himself, which might have been what inspired Dad’s rant. I wasn’t supposed to know how he died, but such things are impossible to hush up. The truth was all round Penscombe in no time. His children had to leave the school. His bank accounts were frozen. Johnny’s parents bought the Gilgamesh yacht for a knock-down price. Dad has never appointed another Finance Director. He told me we don’t need one, but I think he simply can’t bring himself to trust anyone that far. Once bitten, twice shy. He took the work on himself, and when I was appointed Vice-President, he handed a chunk of it to me. By which I mean, to my newly and hastily-assembled department.

Dad brought in the head trainer from the finance department to teach me the basics of accounting. A team of very experienced accountants with R-level clearance were installed in a rather cramped suite of offices on the boardroom floor. Their job was to verify the accounts submitted by all the other departments, and report on any discrepancies to… me.

Of course they by-passed me and went straight to my old man. I would have done the same. They were highly-qualified financial experts. My sole previous position of responsibility had been as captain of a boys’ rugby team.

Time hung heavy on my hands, alone in my magnificent Vice-Presidential office. I tried to teach Danica to play chess, but she wasn’t very good at it, and in any case, she had real work to do. Much as I would have liked to, I couldn’t spend all my time on the Turks’ floor. Veld didn’t mind; he’s always encouraged me to bond with his faux family. But Tseng minded. He thought I didn’t belong there, in his department of dirty business. He thought I should stay _clean_ and _innocent_.

But what I say is, better the lowliest of rookie Turks than a glorified rubber stamp for the chief accountant. I would have made a good Turk. Tseng knows I would. That’s precisely why he’s never liked seeing me hanging around on his floor. He doesn’t want me to become _infected_. Well, it’s too late now.

To fill the empty hours I could have turned to drink, like Hughie, or drugs, like Alex, or I could have carved my name into the skin of my arm over and over again as if it were the lid of a desk, like Kitty. I could have flattered my father by imitating him, bringing secretaries and receptionists into my office for long private ‘meetings’.

Instead, I spent hours honing my hacking skills. Like Braska’s cyanide, you never know when it will come in useful. Hacking’s not hard, but it demands concentration. You need patience, meticulous attention to detail, and a high tolerance for repetitive tasks. It’s time consuming. For me, that was a large part of its appeal.

Money, time, resolve and ingenuity: four things I was not short of.

I could have gone on indefinitely passing a thousand gil now and then to Avalanche through Pia’s charity without anyone being the wiser, but such insignificant sums would not help me achieve my goal. To bend Fuhito to my will, I needed to make him financially dependent on me. I was sixteen; I’d gained control of my mother’s inheritance. I had all the money I needed. What I lacked was a means of transferring it safely to Avalanche.

Shinra Inc’s business accounts are managed by the First Midgar Bank. Which we own. My family’s personal accounts, on the other hand, are with the Casarini bank, the oldest bank in the world, older by several centuries than Shinra Inc. We own it too, though of course Johnny’s dad is still the chairman. Appearances matter. Most people who take any kind of interest in banking know that Dad bought a controlling share in Casarini’s fifteen years ago. What perhaps they don’t know is why.

Information. That’s why. That’s the real gold mine. Dad wanted access to the Casarini’s books. Who’s buying what? Where’s their money going? Who has an account in a false name they’re not telling their spouse about? What dirty little financial secrets are people hiding?

Almost all the Penscombe families have been banking with Casarini’s for generations. Dad mistrusts Penscombe people on principle. He prefers a Scarlet, a Heidegger, a Reeve, people who came from nowhere with nothing and owe everything to Shinra. Veld’s father was a middling clockmaker in Kalm. Today, Penscombe people piss themselves when the shadow of our Turks falls across them. Dad likes that.

I quite like it too. It’s vulgar, but I do.

None of the inheritance my mother left me was in cash. About half was stocks and shares, the rest non-liquid assets, mostly property. To raise the money I needed to fund Avalanche, these assets would have to be sold. It would need to be done in a way that raised no suspicions in anyone’s mind, and gradually, so that it didn’t trigger a collapse in the value of the shares I was selling. And I would have to obtain my father’s permission and approval. There was no possible way I could conceal the sale of my inheritance from him.

What reason could I give him for needing so much liquid capital?

Easy. I’d tell him I wanted to start my own business. Set up my own investment company. Manage my own wealth. Show him what I could do. I’m so desperately eager to impress you, Daddy. I haven’t changed at all since I was four years old, Dad!

I knew he’d lap it up. The more I portrayed myself as a chip off the old block, the more complacent he’d be. And in this, if I do say so myself, I was not wrong. I understand my old man.

I had a good plan of action, but I also had a problem. I couldn’t carry it out on my own. I just didn’t know enough. I needed help. Expert financial help. Help that was sympathetic to the Avalanche cause and wouldn’t rat me out to my father. I asked Pia to tell The Leader to find me someone. He sent me Angela Armiger.

Never let it be said Fuhito has done nothing for me.

What have I doodled here? Looks rather like a penis. Whose penis? Not mine. Tseng’s? Let’s not go there. Whose could it be, long and thin and a little… crooked? Let’s make it Reno’s. Where’s the red pen? A couple of half moon scars on the scrotum - and why not some eyes? Blue pen. A scribble of crazy pubes. Red pen. And now, it’s shooting lightning. He’s be flattered. No, he’ll think it’s an accurate portrait. He had better not take this the wrong way.

Musn’t leave the girls out. Let’s add a vulva. If I can remember… A bearded oyster. Or it could be an orchid. Give it a pair of legs. Turk boots. Sassy ponytail. Now it’s Hunter. She’ll throw a fit. It’s funny, because they can’t stand each other.

I have an idea for another one. Penis cannon. Red pen and blue pen make purple. The fat purple choad cannon, bombastic yet nervous of public opinion and easily startled, shooting off wads of gil at anything it deems a threat. Guess who.

Why should I draw a nice little annotated diagram for them explaining how I did it? Let Tseng come here himself and talk to me. Let them figure it out. I had to.


	20. Chapter 20

Summer began. I was sixteen. School had broken up; my friends were returning to Midgar. Alex called me as soon as he got home. My happiness was out of all proportion. We’d hardly spoken for months. “Come round,” I said. I sent a car to fetch him and they brought him up by the special lift, as always. I wanted to throw my arms around him, but somehow it felt safer not to.

Between my hound and my friend there were no such inhibitions. She wagged her stumpy butt in a frenzy of delight. He gave her a big hug. I showed him my chilly mausoleum of an office. “At least you’re not sharing with your dad,” he said. He rolled a joint and we smoked it together with our feet up on my desk. It felt as if a huge weight that had been pressing on me for months had been lifted from my shoulders.

“School’s shit without you,” he told me. “I’m sick of it. I’d leave if I could think of something I’d rather be doing. Mum and Dad have their hearts set on me going to uni.”

“Write,” I said.

Alex sighed. “I don’t know. I sent a couple of things under my own name to that new literary journal, _Earth Harp_. They wrote back basically saying they’d be delighted to publish in return for a whacking big donation to their running costs. So, just out of interest, I sent the same poems to a different magazine under a pseudonym. Instant rejection.”

“Fuck them. Let’s start our own magazine.” Everything felt possible.

“But seriously, Rufe, what have I got to write about, anyway? I live in the Penscombe bubble. What do I know about real life? Fucking nothing.”

“I thought writers were supposed to use their imaginations.”

He shook his head. “It’s not enough. I mean, look at your man Reno. By the time he was our age he’d probably already lived enough to fill three books. I don’t want to talk about this anymore, it’s depressing. Let’s go to the tennis club, come on.”

But my days of doing anything spontaneously had ended when I left Penscombe. Thanks to the Rayleigh incident, we were at maximum security. They’d even searched Alex when he came in. A poss of PSM was no longer enough. If I wanted to leave the building for any reason, I had to take a Turk with me, and there wasn’t always one available. By the time we’d organised the car and my security detail, and I’d put on my bullet-proof vest and the bangle with the barrier, esuna and curaga materia, Alex was coming down off his high and his enthusiasm had lost its momentum. In the car he smoked another joint and sat staring out the window. It wasn’t until we were almost at the club that he said, not to my face but to the window, “My parents are getting a divorce.”

And I said, “Why?”

Stupid thing to say. 

I wanted to help him, but I didn’t know how. It’s not the kind of thing my old man thinks the heir to Shinra Inc. needs to learn.

A confused mix of emotions ran across his face, coming and going too swiftly for me to read them all. It seemed there was a great deal he could have said, perhaps wanted to say, but he didn’t know where to start. Or else he’d decided I wasn’t the right confidante after all.

Kitty and Allegra were at the clubhouse. They seemed glad to see me. Yet there was a constraint between us - not, as one might have expected, a line between me and the rest of them, but something that cut each of us off from the others. I didn’t know what that _something_ was; I only felt its presence. After giving it a great deal of thought, I’ve come to the conclusion that it was because each of us was unhappy in our own way, and the sources of our unhappiness were things we could not fix for each other. Allegra had lost more weight. Kitty’s grief had not healed nor, I assumed, her arms either. I wasn’t allowed to see them. Though it was a hot day, she wore long sleeves, and kept tugging the cuffs over her balled fists.

Alex rolled another joint and lit it up. The steward approached, but after catching my eye he backed off. I felt the exhilaration of my power, and I thought, _If Dad were gone, this is what it would be like all the time. Only even more so. _

The round of parties started up again. What had seemed so novel and risky and thrilling a year ago was beginning to feel tired and old. People do things when they’re drunk or stoned that they’d be ashamed to do when sober…. And yet, their deep desire to do those things is the reason they get wasted in the first place, to set themselves free of their inhibitions and their fear. This is no mere objective speculation on my part. I’ve done it myself. I’ve felt it. I know.

At Lola Capodimonti’s house party, Allegra, who couldn’t handle much liquor anyway because she’d grown so thin, became aggressively drunk and started declaring she could blow more dicks in a row than any other girl in the room. C’mon, she said, I’ll prove it. Place your bets, ladies and gentlemen. This was not something I had any desire to witness. I was considering how best to make my escape when my Turk came out of her shadowy corner to stand beside me. Hunter, it was.

“So you’re going to let her go through with it, huh?” my Turk murmured in my ear. “She’ll never want to put anything in her mouth ever again after this.”

A nauseating image. I looked at Hunter in disgust. She threw up her hands. “Hey, V.P., she’s not my responsibility. I’m here to look after_ you_.”

It shames me that I needed to be taught by a Turk how to be a friend.

I told Hunter to bring the car around. Allegra weighed no more than a scrawny cat when I put her over my shoulder, to a chorus of boos from the drunken mob. Her fists pummelled my shoulders. “When did you turn into such a boring old man, Rufe?” I was wearing my mythril vest under my shirt, and I was thinking that her knuckles would be bruised the next morning and, with any luck, she wouldn’t remember why.

Mercedes had a new boyfriend. She said he was a friend of Pia’s from JuTech. I assumed he was Avalanche. I assumed he knew nothing about my own involvement. She and I barely exchanged a word; Fuhito had completely cut her from his chain of communication with me.

Alex had a boyfriend too: Cyrus Baine, who’d taken over from me as rugby captain. Alex didn’t make a formal announcement to me or anything like that. He simply allowed me to see the two of them together. It drove home the realisation that I’d become peripheral to his life. I thought, _now it makes sense that he wants to leave Penscombe_. If he and Cyrus were caught together at school they’d be expelled, with all the public humiliation that went with such a catastrophe. In Midgar, their relationship was a non-issue. The support Alex received from his parents was unconditional and unwavering. He didn’t have a father like mine.

I made sure to fulfil my expected quota of vanishing into bedrooms. One has to keep up appearances, allay any suspicions the old man might be nursing. But the novelty of sex had worn off. I enjoyed it less and less, while my aversion to being touched was growing worse. I came to the conclusion that I was probably asexual. Not exactly something to celebrate... But at least better than being gay, or so I thought at the time. Easier. For me, anyway.

A rotten summer. Towards the end of July Aunt Pansy came for one of her flying visits. I told her I was stifling in Midgar. You must come down to the farm, she said. And bring the darling doggo.

I have just this moment realised something. My visits to the farm must have been incredibly disruptive for her. Aunt Pansy was obliged to feed and house my security detail, modify her routine to minimise security risks, and submit everyone who set foot on the farm to body searches. Each of her many staff members - stablehands, grooms, exercise riders, assistant trainers, office staff and groundsmen - must have been vetted by Veld personally and deemed safe to breathe the same air as me before she was allowed to hire them. Yet she never made me feel anything but welcome. And free.

Amateurs like me were not allowed on her racing chocobos. She kept a few retired chookies for leisurely hacks. My security detail followed behind me, and as long as they kept out of my line of sight I could forget they were there. The wide flat meadows of the Grasslands rippling in the wind, the big sky, the endless horizon… My world felt limitless. Dark Nation galloped joyfully beside me, peeling away now and then to chase like a mad thing after the wild chocobos she could never catch - luckily, since one blow from their legs might have killed her. She’d missed the sun and the wind and the smell of grass as much as I had. I resolved that in future I would take her out of Midgar more often.

I hope she’s happy there now, down on Aunt Pansy’s farm. I hope she’s not eating her heart out for me. She shouldn’t have to suffer. Animals are innocent. If I could spend the rest of my life with animals, I think I could be perfectly happy. If my mother had married someone from her own milieu, landed gentry, instead of my Dad, I could have been a farmer. I’ve always loved visiting Aunt Pansy’s stables. I would have enjoyed the farming life. Rising early, spending the whole day in the open air, dropping into bed each night sweetly tied from my physical exertions…. Nobody trying to control me. Nobody wanting to kill me. What a great life that would have been.

It seems so unfair that we only get one life. The stakes are just too high. So little margin for error. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we could all get a test-run, and then start again and do everything right that we did wrong the first time around?

Nothing out of the ordinary ever happened down on Aunt Pansy’s farm, until, one day, it did. I came back from my morning ride to find Aunt Pansy talking to a strange woman. Strange in the sense that I did not know her, but also strange in that she obviously had no idea how to dress for a visit to a racing stables. Bird-shit speckled her six-inch blue satin stilleto shoes. She wore a cuahl-skin jacket (magnificently tailored) over a lace blouse and a business-like black silk skirt that fell to just above her knee. Her bleached blond hair had been backcombed into an enormous bouffant. If I had to guess (she’s never told me her age) I’d say mid-forties. Heavily made up; huge false eyelashes. She was tall in her high heels and lean and rather wiry, though not really taller than me, since I’d finally started growing. Aunt Pansy introduced her.

“Rufus, this is Mrs Angela Armiger. She’s come all the way from Junon. Mrs Armiger, this is my nephew Rufus.”

“Please, call me Angie. Mr Vice-President, it’s an honour.” Armiger offered me her hand to shake. Gold rings on every finger. Chunky gold chains around her neck. She smelled strongly of expensive perfume. Briefly as we shook hands her sleeve rode up a little, and I caught a glimpse of a butterfly tattoo on her wrist.

Definitely _not_ a Penscombe type.

But but but… When she called me _Mr Vice-President_, she didn’t do that thing so many adults did, that thing Scarlet and Heidegger and especially Reeve were guilty of: reminding me, with an arch look or a humorous note to their voice, that I was a teenager, practically still a child, and my title merely a courtesy. Armiger shook my hand as one adult to another. She has what people call a lived-in face, but I liked it. Her eyes were dark and very sharp. She looked intelligent. She struck me as potentially authentic. I started to warm to her.

“Mrs Armiger is thinking of buying a few chocobos,” said Aunt Pansy. “She’s new to racing. She’s looking for some young birds with promise.” To Armiger she said, “My nephew owns some stud farms. One of them’s only an hour’s drive from here. If you’re free this afternoon, my head groom could take you.”

“I didn’t know you were a racing man, Vice-President,” said Armiger.

“Oh, Rufus knows nothing about chocobos,” Aunt Pansy laughed.

“Snap,” said Armiger. “Now if we’re talking _pigeons_, I’m your girl. My Pops used to race _pigeons_ when I was a lass. But _pigeons _are small fry. Chocobos - now we’re talking the big league.”

She caught and held my eye.

_Pigeon_ was the code word I used with Pia.

Could this really be what I thought it was? At my aunt’s own stables? Had _he_ actually dared?

Armiger didn’t look like an Avalanche operative. She looked like somebody’s flashy but vulgar middle-aged aunt, the kind who keeps a gin bottle in her handbag.

Was the Leader teasing me? I didn’t know what to think. I’d been imagining a grey man in a grey suit. Or someone more…. Avalanche-y. Bandana. Desert boots. Eyepatch. Male.

The housekeeper came out to tell us lunch was ready. Aunt Pansy said to Armiger, “Would you like a spot of lunch, Mrs Armiger, or would you rather be on your way?” and Armiger said, “I’m that hungry, I’d love a bite, if it’s not too much trouble. ” From this I was able to deduce that either Armiger intended to hang around until she could get a private word with me, or she didn’t move in the kind of polite circles where people recognised a hint to leave when they heard one.

We all sat down to lunch together. Aunt Pansy talked shop the whole way through. After lunch she had a meeting with her veterinarian. I asked Mrs Armiger if she’d like me to show her the racing birds before she set off.

“There’s an idea,” she replied.

My Turk - it was Two-Guns - hovered at a distance, never taking his eye off me but making sure I had the _space_ Veld insisted on. Armiger and I leaned on the stall door of Juicy Lucy, my aunt’s favourite pet, a retired racer, queen of the pecking order. I said, “Mrs Armiger, are you who I think you are?”

“Yes,” she said.

“We have a mutual friend, then?”

“Friend? I wouldn’t go that far. Let’s call him a pigeon. A little bird told me you’re looking for someone to manage your interests. He thought I might fit the bill.”

“I see.” I was trying very hard to conceal my misgivings. This woman was old enough to be my mother. I didn’t want to be rude to her.

Armiger saw right through me. She grinned suddenly. She had good teeth, well looked after. “Are you judging a book by its cover, Vice-President?”

Right then Lucy butted my shoulder, asking for a head scratch, and I was spared the necessity of replying.

Armiger said, “You don’t have to decide now. I’ll send you my resume. No obligation. Whatever you decide, you should at least make a proper show of considering other candidates. Get four in for interviews. Make it look genuine.”

“It would be hard to explain why I’ve hired you if you’re not the best candidate.”

“Oh, I will be, don’t you worry. Listen - “ She paused, and looked at me, looked _hard _at me; an intense, probing look, as if she was searching for something specific. Then she said, “You’re younger than I expected.”

“You’re older than I expected.”

She grinned again. “You’re quick off the draw when you’re not minding your manners, aren’t you?”

I could think of nothing witty to say in reply.

She said, “Listen. I don’t need this job. I don’t know as I even want this job. But if you ask me to take it, I’ll take it. I wasn’t sure before. Now I am. You need me.”

“I may be young, but I know what I’m doing, Mrs Armiger.”

“I hope you do. Well, now that’s all sorted out, I’d best start heading home. I’ve intruded on your aunt’s hospitality long enough. Oh, one more thing. Mr Pigeon asked me to tell you he’ll be at the Old Regatta next month. He wants to see you there.”

“Tell him I won’t disappoint him.”

“I’ll do that.” Then, projecting loud enough for Two-Guns to hear, she added, “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mr Vice-President. Please tell your father I congratulate him on having raised such a courteous young man. Thanks for the tour. You’ve given me something to think about.”

She drove away, her candy-pink sports car soon disappearing into clouds of reddish Grasslands dust. Two-Guns manifested himself at my side in that silent way they all have, and said to me, “I know that dame.”

My heart began to race. “You do?”

“Yeah. She used to go by Angie Cortina. She ran with the Don, back when he was starting out. That was before my time, but in my home sector she’s kind of a legend.”

“Don _Corneo_?”

“Yeah. They were tight for a while. The word is, he wouldn’t be where he is today without her. She was his accountant, I think. Took care of his money, anyway. They say she was a real looker in her day. What I heard is, the Don was sweet on her, but she went off with this spiv from Junon, Wally Armiger his name was. He was in construction. They had a kid. Girl, I think. His business wasn’t doing so well, and he was knocking her about a bit, so the Don had him sorted. She took over running the business, and now… She looks like she’s doing all right for herself, doesn’t she?”

Armiger was becoming more intriguing to me by the second. “She’s a gangster’s moll?”

Two-Guns gave me a pitying look. Now that I know Armiger, I know why. “I wouldn’t call her that where she can hear you. She’s a pillar of the community these days. Chamber of Commerce and all. Is she gonna invest in some birds?”

“She’s interested in working for me.”

My Turk laughed.

I said, “Yes, it was rather presumptuous of her, wasn’t her? As if I’d want some slummy ex-gangster’s moll in my office,” using my best Penscombe voice.

Two-Guns took umbrage at that. He’s a slummy ex-gangster goon himself. “You could do a lot worse, V.P. They say she’s pretty tidy.”

“What does that mean?”

“Clever with gil. And straight - you know, honest. You don’t come by that so often.”

It made sense Fuhito would send me an accountant with a reputation for honesty. He was looking after his own interests. But why would a woman like Armiger want this job? Commitment to the Avalanche cause? For the connections she could make? Social climbing?

To Two-Guns I said, “Is that so? Well, then, perhaps I’ll consider it.”

Her words went round and round in my thoughts. _If you offer me this job, I’ll take it. _She’d spoken as if she thought I had a choice. Odd, that.

I knew I had no choice, yet I remained in two minds until I saw her again, ten days later, for her official job interview. We flew her up from Junon in a company helicopter. Dad wanted to be on the hiring panel, but I managed to talk him out of it. The finance department training manager took his place. We spent the whole day in interviews. Five highly-qualified accountants wearing sombre suits - exactly what I’d originally pictured for the role - and Armiger, in her tottering heels and her cloud of perfume, flashing gold like some exotic bird, bright of plumage, keen of eye, sharp of mind. The training manager tried hard to trip her up - my god, how he tried, but he couldn’t fault her. She’d done her homework. She’s thorough, is my Armiger. No pretense; no fakery. No attempt to posh up her underplate accent.

As soon as she left the room I turned to the training manager and said, “She’s the one.”

He didn’t look happy. “A rather - eccentric choice, if I may so say, sir.”

_That_ was when it came to me: the reason Fuhito had chosen her. Putting Armiger into this job was the equivalent of shooting off fireworks to cover the sound of one’s advancing artillery. Who would ever suspect that a woman so colourful, so conspicuous, had something to hide?

Putting on my spoiled-little-prince tone, I replied, “She’s the only one whose company wouldn’t utterly bore me.”

The next day Veld came to talk the matter through. “So you’ve chosen Angie Armiger? Are you sure about this, Rufus?”

With Veld the best policy is always to be as honest as circumstances allow. He’s got a pretty good built-in lie detector; nevertheless, it’s possible to swamp it with a multitude of little truths. So I said, “Of course I’m not sure. This is all new to me. I believe she’ll do a good job. More importantly, she was the only woman candidate. We need to start promoting more women in Shinra, this isn’t the dark ages.”

“You know she used to be an associate of Don Corneo’s?”

“That would hardly make her the first person with a shady past to receive an offer of employment from us. Did she pass your security clearance?”

“With flying colours,” he admitted.

Of course she did. Fuhito would hardly have sent her otherwise. “Did Two-Guns tell you I met her at Aunt Pansy’s? I liked her. Dark Nation liked her too.”

Veld smiled indulgently. “If Dark Nation has given her the seal of approval then there’s no more to be said.”

“Two-Guns called her tidy.”

Veld laughed out loud. He was in a good mood.

“Well,” I said, “I suppose I can tell _you_ the truth. The reason I chose Mrs Armiger is because I know Dad wouldn’t have. I don’t want to do things his way. I want to find my own way. This is my business, not his.”

“Understood. We’ll organise an office - “

“Not here. Not in Midgar. In Junon.” I’d have a little more freedom from surveillance if Armiger was based in Junon. “But not the Shinra offices in Junon. I told you, Commander, this is my venture. It will be completely separate from Shinra Inc. Armiger knows the town, she can find premises for us. You’ll give them the once-over, of course, before we sign anything.”

“Rufus Inc, eh?” Veld patted my shoulder. “_Lekker_.” From him there was no higher word of praise. “Good for you, boy. We’ll leave you to get on with it, then.”

Did he really mean that? I doubted it. They would be watching me. In his heart of hearts Dad was confident I’d fail. Well then, so be it. If I couldn’t outsmart them, I didn’t deserve to win.

.

The dog days of August arrived. Winds blew in from the badlands, coating the sealed windows of our building with thick yellow dust. I was now a busy man of business like my father. We went to the Old Regatta together. He was grumpy because it was a hot day and he’d rather have been on the golf course, and I’d irked him by refusing to wear my red and gold Shinra blazer, a more narrowly-cut version of his. How could I meet Fuhito dressed in company colours? The blazer I’d chosen instead was white with thin grey and black stripes; I had designed it myself, with help from the good tailor whom I had, after several false starts, finally settled on. I was in the process of eliminating all colour from my wardrobe. My tailor said my eyes were colour enough. I’d combined the blazer with white flannel trousers, a soft white cotton shirt, a grey silk waistcoat and, as a sop to my old man, a Shinra tie. The semiotics of dress had begun to fascinate me. I wanted a look that clearly stated: _things will be different when Rufus is in charge. _

Looking across the river, I could see, beyond the meadows fenced with a line of trees, the towers and spires of Bovadem University. They’re slowly falling into ruin, the haunt of bats and monsters and, so the folk tales say, the spirits of old sages. Shinra owns that ruin now. There’s been some talk of turning it into a research facility. Nothing’s been done about it; there’s no mako there. 

Dad forced Bovadem to close. It represents everything he hates most: money that’s older than ours, traditions that are older than Shinra, and memory, the remembrance of things past, the way the world used to be. It’s surprising he didn’t shut down the Old Regatta while he was at it.

I was outside the Penscombe boathouse, chatting to some friends who were spoiling Dark Nation with strawberries, when Armiger came to me, accompanied by a girl who was obviously her daughter: they had the same dark eyes. The girl was pretty and chooky. To my great delight Armiger was, yet again, wearing completely the wrong clothes - thousand gil Lavro Lauro stilettos, outrageous quantities of gold, a tailored pink velvet jacket studded with diamante flowers, and no hat on her beehive of bleached blonde hair. At our first meeting back on Aunt Pansy’s farm I’d assumed she made these faux pas out of ignorance, but now I was beginning to suspect she didn’t give a flying fuck about _the done thing_. Armiger dresses to please herself.

My Penscombe friends looked at me in astonishment. _Rufus, you know_ _these ghastly people?_

I was only sorry her sleeve hadn’t ridden up to display her gangster’s-moll butterfly tattoo.

The daughter’s name was Flourish. She was in the fourth form at a school in Costa del Sol. Armiger told me this, while Flourish stood there staring, blushing, tongue-tied. It is a common effect I have on girls - but only on girls who don’t know me.

“Go on then,” said Armiger to her child at last, “Run off and find your friends,” and the girl promptly fled. Armiger turned to me. “I’m sorry about that, Vice-President. She begged to meet you. Wouldn’t give it a rest until I agreed. Do you have some time right now?”

We walked together along the embankment, with Dark Nation at my heel, and my Turk - it was Skeeter; he was new then - half a dozen paces behind me. Armiger wanted to discuss money matters. I was finding it hard to concentrate. Any moment now The Leader and I would be face to face once more. Four months had passed since our first brief but momentous meeting at the Moonlily Ball. What form would he take this time? Would he be a woman again? Could I pick his face out in this crowd?

“There’s someone we should talk to,” said Armiger suddenly, and without asking my permission she took hold of my elbow and steered me in the direction of a man I’d never met before. He wasn’t a sight you could forget: as tall as Sephiroth, twice as wide, extraordinarily hairy, with a huge waxed handlebar moustache, a head of oiled black curls, and tufts of chest hair peeking between the straining buttons of his shirt. From his flattened nose and cauliflower ear I guessed he must once have been a professional ring fighter. I wasn’t wrong.

“Cassius Dio, impresario, at your service, Mr Vice-President.”

Was Armiger going to make a habit of introducing me to bizarre individuals? I rather hoped so. As we chatted I learned that Dio had - has - his fingers in a variety of lucrative pies: hotels, bookmakers, sports shops, event planning. He keeps a stable of prize-fighters the way Aunt Pansy keeps a stable of birds. “Mr Vice-President, you stole one of my own.” He wagged his finger at me. “My best boy Rudy.”

“Rude?” I said.

“That’s my boy. Haven’t seen him for, oh, six, seven years, not to talk to. He was a good boy. A clean fighter. Light on his feet. Never thought he’d be happy in a suit. How’s he getting on?”

“He’s fine.” I don’t like discussing our Turks with outsiders.

Armiger said, “Tell the Vice-President about your idea, Cassius.”

If the purpose of my new business had been to invest my wealth at a profit, I would not have risked a single gil on Dio’s enterprises. His dream theme park sounded like a money pit to me. He wanted to suspend it in mid-air. Why? Did he have any idea how much it costs us, on a daily basis, to keep this absurd city from falling down? A park like that would need its own reactor. The energy costs alone would be astronomical. He might be able to build it, he might even be able to get it up and running, but he’ll never make any money off it.

Which made it ideal for my purposes. Dio’s Gold Saucer project was exactly the kind of cock-eyed, big-vision, never-mind-the-practicalities project that gives my old man a major hard-on. Dad wouldn’t stop to wonder why I’d invested in it. If anything, he’d probably chip in some gil of his own. As far as I was concerned, the faster an investment bled money, the better. It’s easier to fudge the books when gil’s going down the drain at an unaccountable speed.

Will Dio ever build that aerial playground? As far as I know, I still have all my shares. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if he built it and I ended up making my money back? The last I heard, he hadn’t got as far as settling on a location. He wanted to build it in Costa del Sol, but the town council said no. Then he wanted to put it next to Midgar, and Dad said no. We didn’t go to all the trouble of building ourselves a castle in the air just so some jumped-up impresario could build himself a bigger one and look down on us. Dio then suggested Junon, and Dad said no again, for the same reason. I’ve suggested Mideel. It’s ripe for development as a tourist destination. Dio isn’t keen.

While Armiger and Dio and I were chatting, a man came up behind Dio and caught my eye. The height and build were right. The wrinkled, bearded face could not have been more different. The beaky nose was new too. Abundant grey hair fell to his shoulders. Old fashioned horn-rimmed sunglasses covered his eyes. He wore his yellow and green boating blazer as if to the manor born.

My heart thumped with sick excitement. I nudged Armiger. She turned.

“Oh! Mr Pigeon. There you are. We’ve been waiting for you.”

Dark Nation’s stump wasn’t wagging. Her tentacle had wrapped itself around my wrist, something she only does when she’s feeling anxious. I paid no attention. I was _ridiculously _excited. Look at me, look at cunning Rufus, I’m shaking the hand of Dad’s arch-enemy right under my Turk’s nose _and he doesn’t have a clue_!

I wanted to take my time studying Fuhito’s face, fix his features in my mind - but I didn’t want him to catch me doing it. My eyes were all over the place. I must have come across as rather furtive. We discussed the weather, the chances of Penscombe’s eights winning any of their races, and Dio’s proposed theme park. Mr Pigeon asked if I had considered forming a holding company. Armiger said she was on it. From time to time someone passing by stopped to speak to me. Mr Pigeon waited with a genial smile until he could reclaim my attention. He seemed completely at ease. I wished I could emulate his cool. On the outside, I was managing to look calm, but inside, I was frazzling.

My shifty eyes scanned the crowd and found my father. Veld was at his side, speaking into his ear. Mr Pigeon followed my line of sight from behind his sunglasses. “An obstacle?” he asked.

I needed a moment to find the right words. “Not a permanent one, I hope.”

A faint shimmering light like a heat haze was forming around my old man. Dad had activated his Wall. Why?

“We can do it,” said Fuhito. “But it won’t be cheap.”

Skeeter touched my arm. “Sir, it looks like something’s wrong. Let me just - “ and he threw a Wall around me, rather clumsily, because he was new at this. Armiger and Fuhito were both covered by his cast. Armiger looked nervous. Fuhito looked amused.

Skeeter said, “Sir, we ought to go somewhere safer - “

An explosive _whump_ burst upon our ears. It sounded like a grenade. All of us, except for Fuhito, whipped around to stare in the direction the noise had come from. Fuhito remained unperturbed. The reverberations of the explosion were fading. The silence felt stunned. Another explosion followed, and another in rapid succession, and a burst of automatic gunfire. Then the screaming started. People were running in all directions as if they’d lost their senses. Dio fled. Armiger shouted, “Flourish!” and plunged into the panicking melee.

I couldn’t see my father anywhere. I glimpsed a flash of red: Reno, running. 

Dark Nation had moved to put herself between me and Fuhito. I turned to look at him. He was smiling like the cat that’s got into the dairy. Was this his work? In all the many ways I’d imagined my father dying, I’d never once pictured myself a spectator.

Skeeter said, “C’mon, V.P., let’s go - “

He wanted to take me to the Shinra boathouse. It has a safe room. I didn’t want to go. If today was to go down in history as the dawn of my new era, I didn’t want it to begin with me cowering in a bomb-proof cellar.

Fuhito said, “You’re not afraid, Vice-President?”

I’d never been less afraid in my life. I felt _fantastic_ \- indestructible - sweeping all before me, surfing the wave of a massive adrenaline rush that was like a shot of hyper straight to the heart. Like I’d downed six megalixirs in one gulp. What I imagine that would feel like. I’ve never actually tasted a megalixir.

I said, “Fear is for losers.”

“C’mon, sir, please,” said Skeeter, “You can’t just keep standing here.”

Fuhito said, “I’m afraid you’re destined to be disappointed. Today, at any rate.”

I stared at him. His words were making me feel something I didn’t want to feel.

He said, “The cost of what you’re asking is phenomenally high. Contractors expect to be paid up front. It’s simply good business. Too many people nowadays feel no qualms about reneging on their debts. As for this little brouhaha, you needn’t concern yourself. It will amount to nothing, I’m sure.”

“I’m still taking you to the safe place, sir,” Skeeter insisted. “It’s my job, dude.”

Anger was boiling in me. “How much?” I said to Fuhito. “How much do you want?”

He said, “You have a new business manager. Are you pleased with her? I understand she has a reputation as an honest woman.”

“How _much_?”

“May I offer you a word of advice, Vice-President? You’d be wise not to trust an honest woman with all your secrets. You never know when she might suffer an attack of principles. As for this other matter, I’ll contact you directly, when the time is right. Now I think I should go. My friends will be wondering what’s happened to me. I wouldn’t want them to think I’ve come to any harm. Thank you for our interesting chat, Mr Vice-President. Good day.”

He tipped his hat to me, turned, and strolled off into the roiling crowd. It’s like a snapshot in my memory: the smoke-filled air, the noise, the panic, and Fuhito in his blazer and boater silhouetted against the chaos seething all around him. He moved calmly, without hurrying, unafraid.

“Who the hell is that geezer?” said Skeeter.

For five whole seconds, or perhaps a little less, I seriously considered telling Skeeter the truth. I’d come down off my adrenaline high and I was furious with Fuhito. How _dared_ he toy with me like this?

But I am not my father. I have never been someone who lets himself get so angry he forgets how to think clearly. I remembered that Skeeter was still a rookie. If I shouted _That’s the leader of Avalanche, get him!_ Skeeter might be paralysed by confusion. Any of the people around us could have been secret Avalanche agents, ready at a nod from their Leader to kill my Turk and kill or kidnap me. And if I shouted the truth and Fuhito got away… or if I shouted it out and Fuhito was captured…. Either way, I’d have more explaining to do than I could possibly lie my way out of, and when the dust had settled I would have lost everything, including my father’s trust, which was absolutely essential to me if I was to achieve my ultimate goal.

Nor could I ever forget Lazard, hovering in the wings, plotting to steal my inheritance.

“V.P.? Are you okay?”

“He’s potentially an investor.”

“For an old guy, he’s got nerves of fucking steel. Can we please go to the safe place now? The Chief’ll rip me a new one if I let you stand here much longer.”

Eventually a helicopter came to pick me up, and another one came for Dad. Back home Dad would not stop fussing over me. “They could have killed you, Rufus!” It took every ounce of my self-control to refrain from lashing out at him. I was still furious with Fuhito. Veld showed up later with a damage report. He said nobody had claimed responsibility for the attack. Four PSM had been wounded, not critically; there were four civilians with mild to middling injuries, some wrecked cars in the car park, and the JuTech boathouse had burnt to the ground. No fatalities. I almost blurted out, _What about Avalanche_ _casualities?_ but managed to catch myself before I gave the game way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the delay in updating. I've been travelling for work.


	21. Chapter 21

Tseng’s back!

Steady on there, Rufus old chap. Don’t go giving the game away.

Take a moment to read his face. See? He’s come to tell you off.

I think I won’t get up.

“Get up, Rufus.”

I look straight into his eyes and hold it. Impressive. I impress myself. We’ve spent more time together in the last weeks (months?), than in the whole of the previous year, and he still hasn’t got a clue.

Because he’s never, ever thinking about me. I mean just me, nothing but me, only me and me alone. Always other things on his mind. Other people. I could give him a blatant hint and it would go right over his head. He’s phenomenally obtuse. Watch.

“This new bed is really comfortable. You should try it. And so huge. It’s almost too big for one person.”

“It’s the same size as the one in your apartment.”

See, he’s not properly listening.

He’s gone to get himself a chair and he’s picking it up, bringing it over, putting it down, sitting down, crossing his legs, adjusting his cuffs. _I’m a busy man with no time for your childish petulance_, is what he’s saying.

If I got out of bed now, I’d only confirm his belief that I’m being deliberately contrary. Like a defiant toddler. When I was surely the least defiant toddler who ever lived. Stubborn, yes. Defiant, no. Little me was desperately eager to please. How stupid do I feel now? I can’t talk to him while I’m lying down in bed, it makes me feel like an invalid. I’ll sit up, cross my legs, back against the wall. 

“Tseng...“

“Yes?”

“How long have I been here?”

“Four weeks, give or take a day.”

Surely not. Four weeks? Is that all? I thought it was more like four _months_. Now I’m three months further away from freedom than I was before I asked him. “Is my old man planning to keep me in here forever?”

“Your father didn’t create this situation. We’ll hold you in protective custody for your own safety until the Avalanche threat is eliminated. If you want to get out of here, I suggest you cooperate with us.”

“I _am_ cooperative. How much more cooperative can I be?”

Aha, it’s the moment he’s been waiting for. From his inside pocket he produces my little work of art. It’s better than I remembered. So they showed it to him after all. I was afraid Mink might have thrown it away.

“If you act like a child, Rufus, you’re going to be treated like a child.”

“But Tseng, I _am_ a child.”

“You’re an adult. You’re eighteen. And in any case…”

Why is he hesitating? What’s in his mind? “Go on, Tseng.”

“Even when you were a child, you didn’t think like a child.”

Ah yes, that’s good. More, please. “What do you mean?”

No, he won’t be drawn. I’ve had my ration. “Today,” he says, “We’ll try a different approach. I’m going to tell you everything we know about Avalanche, and you’re going to fill in whatever you can. Then you’re going to tell me exactly how you, Pia Gandara, and Mrs Angie Armiger organised your reverse money-laundering. I’ve cleared the afternoon for this.”

Marvellous. Amazing. So generous. The whole afternoon.

“It’s afternoon?”

“Wednesday afternoon.” Checking his PHS. “One forty-five.”

“Tseng - “ Oh, how I hate to ask for anything - “Could you let me have a clock? A digital one. Not one that ticks. That would drive me mad. And a calendar.”

He doesn’t say Yes. He doesn’t say No. He makes a note in his notebook.

I might as well shoot for the moon while I’m at it. “And could I have some curtains?”

“Curtains?”

“For the two-way mirror. You don’t really need to watch me twenty-four seven. You could let me have a little privacy.”

Scribble, scribble, stop. The notebook remains open, the pen poised in his fingers.

“Rufus, what can you tell me about Fuhito’s origins?”

“I know he speaks fluent Wuteng.”

“Yes. We know that too. Did he strike you as being of Wuteng descent?”

“It’s hard to say. Every time I met him, he was wearing some sort of disguise. He has an incredibly plastic face. He can make himself look like anyone. If I were you, Tseng, I wouldn’t rule out the possibility that he’s a woman. Or something in between.”

He’s looking at me closely. “What makes you say that?”

Wait. Wait. Does he think - ? Oh, ugh. “I told you before, the first time I met him he was disguised as a woman. He made a very credible woman. And his voice…”

“Yes. I see what you mean. Interesting.” Scribble, scribble.

How can he accuse me of being uncooperative?

He says, “We’ve been unable to find any birth records for a child named Fuhito. We presume that’s an assumed name. He’s had a number of aliases. We don’t know where he comes from or how old he is. The furthest back we’ve been able to trace him with any certainty is 1977, when he must have been in his late teens. At that time, someone who matches his description was working in a private pharmaceutical production facility in the north-east, using the name ‘Allan Sweeting’, which is one of his known aliases.”

“There’s no real Allan Sweeting?”

“The only real Allan Sweeting we’ve been able to find died in 1967, aged twelve.”

“The same year Professor Gast discovered Jenova.”

Tseng nods. “That’s right.”

“Is the date significant? Do you think there’s a connection? Between Fuhito and Jenova? Could he have worked on Gast’s dig?”

“It’s not impossible. We looked into it. But it’s a long time ago, nearly thirty years. Everything was recorded on paper then, and many of the records have perished. We didn’t find anything that would link Gast and Fuhito. And I, personally, think he wouldn’t have been old enough in 1967 to be employed on an archaeological dig.”

“Possibly not. So, Fuhito stole a dead boy’s identity. That sounds like him. Go on.”

“We have nothing to indicate that he attended any university or polytechnic, so we’ve tentatively concluded that he learnt his biochemistry on the job with the pharmaceutical company. According to their records, he was dismissed without a reference in 1978. The causes of his dismissal were gross misuse of company property and unsatisfactory time-keeping.”

“He was probably using their lab rats for his own experiments on company time. Go on.”

“He disappears for a while, but we have reason to believe he was working with Hojo in Nibelheim in 1981. Hojo claims to have no memory of him, but then, he wouldn’t.”

Human beings are little more than a set of interchangeable parts to Dad’s Chief Scientist. “You should check Hojo’s records.”

“We’ve asked. He refuses.”

“Can’t Dad insist?”

“You know he won’t, Rufus.”

Dad’s strange relationship with Hojo is something I have never been able to fathom. The man’s a psychopath. He should never be allowed within ten miles of any sentient creature. His SOLDIER program has been a flop. Any moderately well-managed organisation would have tossed him and his money-sucking projects into the dustbin years ago. It’s almost as if Dad’s afraid of him. And yet, it’s not fear. I need to think on this some more.

Tseng’s talking again. “If Fuhito was in Nibelheim in 1981, that would explain how he gained access to Felicia. As you know - “

The Wutai war had just broken out. Kalm was accidentally firebombed, friendly fire, Veld’s mistake; the survivors were taken to Hojo’s lab in Nibelheim, Felicia Veld among them. “Yes, I know. He gave his own daughter to Hojo.”

“He thought Hojo could heal her.”

“Is that what he told you?”

“I have no reason to doubt him.”

Really? _Really_? Can we stop and think about this for a minute? Veld gave his own child to Hojo. To _Hojo._ Would Dad give _me_ to Hojo? Can we think of _any_ reason that might induce Dad to give me to Hojo? No. Of course he would not. Not even if I were dying.

Hojo told Veld his child had died. And Veld believed him. Veld believed _Hojo._ Why would anyone in their senses believe a word Hojo says? I know Veld was deadly sick at the time himself, but even so…. Didn’t he ask to see the body?

He never spoke about Felicia. Nobody did. I grew up believing Veld was a single man with no children; that the Turks were and had always been his entire family.

“What I believe,” says Tseng, “Is that Fuhito was working in Nibelheim as a lab technician, and when Hojo discarded Felicia, Fuhito helped himself to her. Hojo may even have given Fuhito permission to take her. He couldn’t categorically deny it. He told me such minor matters weren’t worth the trouble of remembering.”

Look at him. Look at him! He’s so angry. He’d like to rip Hojo’s throat out. But he’s holding it all inside, forcing himself to speak calmly. I love it when he’s like this.

“I have no proof,” he says, “But I believe that’s what happened.”

“It makes sense. Fuhito could easily have spent some time under Hojo’s influence. He’s always admired him. They think alike in many ways.”

“Felicia was sixteen when - when it happened. Fuhito must have left Nibelheim soon afterwards and taken her with him, and we lose sight of them again. They crop up briefly in Cosmo Canyon in 1985, claiming to be a brother and sister named Jones, and then they reappear in the Heel of Wutai in 1987. Fuhito was using the alias Efim Moufubuki, and Felicia was calling herself Lucky Penny.”

“I do like their names, Tseng.”

He frowns. “This isn’t a TV show.”

“But that’s what you have to understand about Fuhito. In a way, it is a show. He’s always performing. He loves a fancy dress party. The aliases, the patently fake names, the disguises, the subterfuge - it’s what he lives for. Can you understand that? I understand it.”

“I’m sure you do.”

“It’s fun. It’s exciting.”

“Is that why you did it?”

“Yes. Partly. No. Yes. I did quite often enjoy myself. I’m not going to lie.”

“Then perhaps you are still a child, after all.”

“Oh, come on now, Tseng, that’s not fair. In fact it’s a little bit hypocritical. You’re a grown man who practices espionage for a living. Are you trying to tell me you never enjoy your work?”

Aha, I’ve got him there. He can’t meet my eye. He’s looking away, wrestling his face back into what he fancies is its customary inscrutability. It’s so - I don’t know - so _him_. 

“Go on about Efim Moufubuki and Lucky Penny. Is Efim another identity he stole?”

“Yes. The real Efim Moufubuki was a subject of Wutai who died in the first month of the war. We’ve confirmed that in 1987 Fuhito and Elfe were living under alias in Uchigura. Fuhito was working for the Marquis of Zuhao. They built a lab for the purposes of developing anti-SOLDIER biological weapons. Zuhao’s confirmed this himself.”

“Godo had no idea.”

Tseng sits up even straighter. Finally, I’ve said something interesting. “Do you know that for a fact, Rufus?”

“For a fact, no. But it’s the only logical deduction. Lord Godo’s a religious man, isn’t he? He wouldn’t tolerate the use of mako for what he’d see as a blasphemous purpose. That _is_ why we went to war with them in the first place, isn’t it? If he wouldn’t allow a reactor, he wouldn’t allow a mako lab either. I’m assuming Fuhito was experimenting with Ravens at this lab in Uchigura.”

“We think so. The records have been destroyed, of course, and there’s nothing left of the lab. Fuhito blew it up when we were advancing through the Heel in ‘88, before the Solstice Ceasefire, and then he left Wutai with Elfe.”

“He must have seen the writing on the wall. Don’t tell me - he left without saying good-bye to his benefactor?”

“Zuhao had served his purpose. He’s still fuming about it.”

“Of course he is. Does the Marquis think Fuhito is Wuteng?”

“He wasn’t sure. Knowing Fuhito’s origins might help us track him down, but his ethnicity isn’t itself an issue. What Zuhao can’t forgive is that when Fuhito left Uchigura, he took some of Zuhao’s troops with him, men and women who weren’t prepared to accept peace with Shinra. Not all of them were Wuteng. The war attracted disaffected elements from around the world. After the war, some of them stayed in Wutai and some of them dispersed. We think that some of the foreign fighters who left Uchigura with Fuhito returned to their homes and started forming Avalanche cells. It’s a cause that has proven attractive to all kinds of alienated people. People who lost their homes or loved ones during the war. Conscript soldiers who after ten years no longer had a home to return to, discharged with no pension.”

“The ‘distortions’ of Shinra.” Remembering the phrase, I can’t help smiling.

“You read Lazard’s circulars.” Tseng smiles too. We’re sharing a smile!

“My old man has a bad habit of making economies in all the wrong places. You said something just now about their ‘cause’. Tseng, you do understand what Avalanche _is_, don’t you? I don’t mean for the rank-and-filers, those poor saps. I mean for Fuhito.”

“I think so. It’s a cult, which he set up to provide himself with a revenue stream and a source of willing candidates for his experiments. And because it’s positioned itself as implacably hostile to Shinra, once you’re in, it’s impossible to get out.”

Good, he _does_ understood.

Ah, but he’s not done. “The Avalanche ideology seems particularly designed to appeal to a certain class of young person.” He’s giving me one of his arch looks.

“Yes, yes, I know, spoilt rich trust fund babies with more money than sense. What you call their ‘ideology’ is nothing but a mishmash of pre-war anti-Shinra propaganda, some Wuteng religious claptrap about summons, and Cosmo Canyon planetism. Anyone who’s stupid enough to fall for it has only themselves to blame. Go on with the story, Tseng.”

“Fuhito disappears from sight when he leaves Uchigura, and reappears a year later back in Cosmo Canyon, now using the name we know him by, and running Planet Life workshops. That’s where your Gandara sisters were recruited.”

“I know that. Go on.”

“We think Fuhito and Elfe must have joined forces with Shears at some point between leaving Wutai and returning to the Canyon. We know more about Shears than we do about Fuhito. He’s from Junon originally. His parents died when he was young. He blames Shinra for their deaths. He was raised in an orphanage, worked on the docks for a while, left Junon to escape enforced conscription during the war, and joined a gang of bandits working the roads in the old forests south of Junon. That used to be a lawless area. It’s better now. He rose to be their leader. Fuhito and Elfe were passing through the forest, Shears’ gang attacked, Elfe defeated them single-handed. The consequence of this encounter was that Shears left the bandits and joined up with Fuhito and Elfe. There’s some sexual or romantic connection between those two, Shears and Elfe, isn’t there?”

“I’ve heard something to that effect. I can’t confirm it. I’ve never met either of them. Except, of course, at Corel.”

“Still. It would be useful to know.”

“How did you find all this out, Tseng?”

“The bandit gang broke up when Shears joined Avalanche. A couple of them came to Midgar. One of them, Kotch, works for Corneo now.”

It’s a small world. “So, now Shears, Elfe and Fuhito have come together. What happens next?”

“They build Avalanche up through a network of cells. We know Fuhito was making Ravens somewhere, because he used them in the data disk theft in June of ‘91 - “

“Couldn’t he have taken them from the lab in Uchigura?”

“We don’t think so, because all our evidence suggests that Ravens degrade much faster than the clones created by Genesis and Angeal. Biologically, Ravens seem to be very unstable. They don’t contain Jenova cells and they can’t directly copy themselves. Any Raven prototypes Fuhito took from Uchigura probably wouldn’t have survived until 1991. We concluded that he must have built a new lab somewhere, but so far, we haven’t been able to definitively locate it. This lab may have been abandoned, or he may still be using it. The Commander though we’d find his main base in Midgar, but…”

“What do you think, Tseng?”

“If it were in Midgar, we’d have found it by now. I think Avalanche were based up north much earlier than we originally thought. From ‘89, if not earlier. Natalya was up there recruiting, and I think they killed her opportunistically, because their paths crossed. And in revenge for Braska, of course. I think Fuhito knows or suspects about Jenova, what we use Jenova for, and I think he chose the Glacier as his base because he wanted to find whatever remnants of Jenova still linger there. Or possibly another specimen like her. This is why I think he must have worked with Hojo in Nibelheim after the Kalm incident. Too much is dependent on coincidence otherwise. Rufus, did you know where their base was, back in ‘92? When we were throwing everything we had into finding it? Did you know all along?”

“No. Fuhito always told me as little as he could get away with. I found out when you did, at the board meeting, when Veld told us Rosalind had established their coordinates.”

“And you immediately tipped them off that we were coming?”

“Of course. I had to protect my investment.”

He’s sitting back, arms folded, looking at me. _Really_ thinking about me. This is pleasant, but also a little nerve-wracking. What conclusions will he come to? It’s so depressing when he gets it wildly wrong.

“You didn’t care about your investment. You expected to lose all that money.”

“That’s true. But I do care about conserving resources.”

“You cared about protecting your conspiracy.”

“Under the circumstances, I don’t think that was unreasonable.”

“The casualties from that mission to the Glacier amounted to almost two hundred people, counting both our own losses and Avalanche. Knox nearly died.”

“What do you want me to say, Tseng?”

I hope he doesn’t think that was a rhetorical question. I’d really like to know. What answer is he looking for? He keeps talking as if my actions don’t make sense, when surely it must be obvious by now that they made perfect sense and were, in fact, the only options open to me.

He’s not saying anything. Maybe he doesn’t know himself what he wants.

“Do you want me apologise? As it happens, I am sorry. When I got into this, I didn’t picture it unfolding the way it has. I regret the loss of life and I’m sorry for what happened to Knox. But I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t realise people would die. In that respect, I went into this with my eyes open. What about you, Tseng? Are you ever sorry? I’m sure you must have some regrets. But what about my old man? Do you ever ask him if _he’s_ sorry? Let me tell you: he’s not sorry. You think he remembers the names of the second classes who died on that mission to the Glacier? I remember. Essai Yevtuschenko and Sebastian Bold.”

“You’re not your father, Rufus.”

“I know I’m not. I don’t want to be. But have you ever thought that perhaps I _need_ to be? When I take over this company, what’s going to happen to us if I am unable to make those hard choices? The choice isn’t always between somebody dying and nobody dying. Sometimes the only choice is _who_ will die. One day I will have to make those choices. If I can’t, if I hem and haw because I’m too full of compassion or overwhelmed by empathy, somebody else will step in and make them for me. There’s always somebody else in the wings, waiting.”

What will he say to that? Will he admit I’m right? He knows what this world is like. Penscombe was an unreal idyll. In the real world it’s eat or be eaten. Refusing to play the game isn’t a option. If I turned my back and tried to walk away, someone would plant a knife between my shoulder blades, and if that somebody turned out to be Scarlet, or Heidegger, or even Reeve, I wouldn’t be surprised. You musn’t trust anybody. Unless you actively want to die.

“Rufus, did you encourage your father to relieve Commander Veld of his command?”

Oh. I see. He hasn’t been mulling over my words. They fell on deaf ears. He’s been thinking about his fake dad.

“Rufus? After the disaster at the Glacier, did you tell your father that Commander Veld was incompetent and untrustworthy and should be dismissed?”

“Yes I did.”

“You told me the President put those words in your mouth.”

“I lied. And you pretended to believe me, so I think we’re even.”

“How - “

Damn! That’s his phone ringing. Don’t answer it, Tseng!

But of course he must.

“Yes, sir. Immediately - “

He’s already rising to his feet. Dad wants him. He’ll have to go now.

I never really believed I’d get the whole afternoon, anyway.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: the last part of this chapter contains a number of homophobic slurs. If you wish to avoid them, skip to the end from the point where Skeeter comes in. I've put in an trigger-free author's note summarising that section.

All right. I’ve been given some more paper. Clean slate. Let’s try again, shall we?

Hunter brought it. One can’t avoid the suspicion that he chose her for this task on purpose. She certainly gave me a piece of her mind. “What the fuck were those dumb cartoons in aid of? You think you’re clever, sir? You think the joke’s on us?”, punctuating each question with punch to my shoulder, shoving me backwards until my back was against the wall. “We were ready to take a (_punch_) bullet for you. That’s our (_punch) _job_, _sir. We could have let Avalanche (_punch) _shoot you back in that fucking reactor but we didn’t, we saved your (_punch) _life . We’re not just your fucking meatshield, (_punch) _sir, we’re human beings, we have (_punch) _feelings _, _you little shit.”

She’s such a tempestuous woman. How does Tseng control her? With tact and difficulty, I imagine.

I said, “Funny.”

She said, “What’s funny?”

“ ‘The little shit’. That’s what Reno calls me. Do you always copy everything he does?”

“Fuck you, sir,” she said, and punched me in the head. The pain was quite intense. I saw double for a few seconds.

“I told you what the Boss wants. Do it,” she said, and stormed out.

I suppose I will. It’s not as if I have any other pressing engagements.

Let’s see.

Armiger said our first step was to set up a holding company. I asked Dad to name it for me, a tactical move on my part. I hoped that if I involved him voluntarily in my business, he’d be less inclined to interfere behind my back. He chose the name PPS Holdings, after my mother, predictably. Patricia Palmer Shinra. I didn’t like it. The money isn’t hers any more. She’s dead. It’s mine. Agreeing to put her name on my company felt as if I was claiming her endorsement of my planned coup d’etat.

I wonder… If she were still alive today, would she have supported me? I can’t believe he was like this when he married her. No woman with an independent income and a modicum of self-respect would choose to marry the man Dad is today. Would it break her heart to see what he’s become? Would she agree he has to go?

I didn’t like the name, but I let it stand, to placate him and keep him off my back. I’ll put it right in the middle of this sheet of paper. _PPS Holdings._ Let’s draw a box around it.

My personal trust fund should go above it. Circle _trust fund_, and draw an arrow leading to the PPS box. My trust fund paid the running costs of my end of the operation: the rent on the Junon office, salaries, letterhead and so on. These were not expenses I needed to conceal from Dad. Nor did I need to hide the fact that we were operating in the red. No business turns a profit in its first year. I didn’t imagine I’d ever be called upon to justify my bottom line to him. I thought he’d be dead before the year was out.

Another circle for my Palmer inheritance. No, two circles. One that connects to _PPS Holdings_, and one that’s entirely separate. The unconnected circle contains my mother’s personal possessions, her jewels, her art, her antiques. Fuhito wasn’t getting his hands on those. I hold them in trust for her grandchildren. If I ever have any.

The rest of it, the property and the investments, was what I used to fund Avalanche. Eighty-two million gil. Give or take.

I called Johnny’s dad myself to let him know my fortune was being transferred to new management. I’d have done it anyway, even without Avalanche. In the sixteen years they’d been stewarding my inheritance, Casarini’s Bank had done nothing interesting or imaginative with it, and if you factor in inflation, it was worth less when I took control than it had been when my mother died. Armiger says it’s practically criminal, the way they allowed my wealth to stagnate.

Johnny’s dad was not happy to hear my news. First he asked me if this was my father’s idea. I said it was entirely my own. Then he asked if my father knew about it. I said I was making my own decisions now. Then he asked me if I thought I was old enough to do that, and I told him it wasn’t his place to question my judgement. And he apologised. He apologised.

I’ve known him since I was a tiny child. I’ve slept over at his house more times than I can count. Stayed at their country place. He made us pancakes on Sunday mornings. He taught me cribbage and the knack of long-arm bowling. My friend’s dad was _apologising_ to me for reminding me that I was still a child. I lost all respect for him in that moment.

He started laying on the flattery, saying he’d always thought me the cleverest of his son’s friends, urging me not to do anything in haste, inviting me to come see him any time, his door was always open, or he could come round to my office if that was more convenient.

He said, “Rufus, I implore you, as one old Fortie to another, don’t do this.”

I felt embarrassed for him.

Before Armiger came on board I had imagined I’d proceed by selling my investments bit by bit, releasing capital which I would then give to Fuhito. Armiger soon corrected my thinking. Why sell when you can mortgage? And what kind of idiot, she demanded, would deliberately cause a company to lose value _when he owns its shares_? We should be boosting the value of Casarini stock, not undermining it. She reminded me that I didn’t have a cellar full of cold hard cash to draw on. Although, she said, you should buy more gold. Everybody should have the biggest reserve of gold they can afford. In case they ever need to start over. Funny… Armiger wears her reserve round her neck and on her fingers.

In the end, she took out mortgages on thirty-five to forty million gil worth of shares altogether, at least half of those with Casarini’s bank. I suppose they still hold those mortgages. Dad must know about them now. I wonder if he plans to buy them back. My Palmer inheritance is a drop in the ocean compared to his net worth.

Armiger took out mortgages with other financial institutions as well. Let me list them. First Midgar. Eastern Central Cooperative. Corel Coal Miner’s Mutual Fund. Adamant Insurance and Loans. About ten million gil’s worth of bonds was transferred to the ownership of a shell company which was then sold to an Avalanche front company, _Strahl Venture Capital,_ for a nominal price that was falsified in our books.

We gave Pia’s _Fly Free Foundation_ several hundred thousand gil worth of high-yield bonds in Tredescant Steel - from which Midgar is built; in Arroyo and Sons Transport; in G.E.I., the Gandara’s own corporation. We donated to various charities. Artificial limbs for veterans. An orphanage in the mountains east of Costa del Sol. The artificial limb charity made guns. The orphanage was a boot camp for Fuhito’s cannon fodder.

Some of our investments were legitimate businesses set up by, run by, and underwriting Avalanche. A chain of item shops on the western continent sold real potions and bangles. Franchises of launderettes in Junon and Midgar where you could actually wash your clothes. The razor weed plantations in Wutai. Later, the toy factory. These businesses ran at a loss and absorbed money like a sponge - a sponge Fuhito was perpetually sucking dry.

His single biggest expense was his laboratory. The cannon fodder didn’t cost much. They were more like a citizen militia than a standing army, living at home, getting on with their ordinary lives, attending their clandestine Avalanche meetings, mustering when called upon to do so. They received very little in the way of military training. Armiger told me most of them bought their own uniforms. Fuhito designed the uniforms himself, once he realised it would otherwise be too difficult to tell his operatives apart from ordinary citizens. He didn’t mind squandering their lives, but even he preferred them to avoid blindly shooting each other wherever possible.

I hadn’t realised when I hired her that playing the stock market is Armiger’s passion. She makes an art out of it. Or maybe a better analogy would be chess. I’ve often suspected the real reason she signed up with Avalanche was because she couldn’t resist the prospect of playing with so much money. She’s definitely not a True Believer. She’s never shown any particular commitment to The Cause.

Not long after we first started working together, she sat me down and said, “Vice-President (she always calls me Vice-President), you’re not stupid. You must realise that if you go on spending like this, you’ll be broke in four years. Or even sooner.”

I almost laughed. Fuhito wouldn’t take four years to kill my old man… or so I fondly imagined. However, I couldn’t say that. Not to Armiger. Fuhito had made it clear she knew nothing about our arrangement regarding Dad. He had quite explicitly warned me not to trust her.

I hated giving Armiger the impression I was foolish with money, but it had to be done. So I said, “I’m not worried.”

“Well, you should be. It hurts me, it physically hurts me, Vice-President, right in here - “ she tapped her chest - “To see you blowing through your capital like this. Money needs to be treated with respect. Do right by your money, and it’ll do right by you. If you give me a free hand, I promise you in five years I’ll have increased your net worth by at least twelve per cent. That’s a better deal than any bank’ll give you.”

She wasn’t exaggerating. Armiger knows her business. Those two million shares she bought in Ultros Pharmaceuticals have almost doubled in price in less than two years. Tidy. I wonder if it’s time to sell them. She wouldn’t want me hanging on to them for sentimental reasons.

She wouldn’t let me sell my real estate either. Some of the properties we mortgaged; some of the warehouses we leased to Avalanche for peppercorn rents, first through Pia’s charity and then through our other set-ups. The small mining company was the perfect front for stockpiling chemicals and equipment. And chocobo stud farms are notorious for running at a loss. The three I own, which came to me from my Palmer grandfather, were ideal money sinks. We ‘lost’ thousands in their operating costs.

From start to finish, the only money we used was mine. I never touched a single round gil of anybody else’s money. It would have been child’s play for me to hack into the bank accounts of the Babbingtons or the Fortescues and transfer their entire balances to Avalanche, covering my tracks on the way out. Who would suspect Rufus Shinra of such highway robbery? I could have emptied their accounts and filled them up again with a few taps on the keyboard; I could have erased the history as if nothing had ever happened. I could have conjured money out of thin air. It would have been so easy.

But I’m not a common thief. Tseng needs to understand this. What I want, I pay for.

One day - oh, this is such a good memory - Dark Nation and I were in Tseng’s office. He’d tried to get rid of me, but I’d begged him to let me stay because I simply could not endure my mausoleum of dead dreams another minute. He was sitting at his desk, working on his laptop, and I was off in the corner working on the desktop he hardly ever uses. I don’t know what he was doing, fretting about Veld probably. I was busy hacking into the First Midgar bank’s records right under his nose. I didn’t intend to steal anything; I only wanted to practice my coding. Tseng could see my screen. But he wasn’t watching my screen. His eyes were on me. I could feel them. I turned my head, and caught him looking at me as if I were something rare and beautiful, the light of his eyes, a delight to gaze upon.

When he realised I’d caught him, he quickly looked away and started busying himself with all kinds of things. As for me, I couldn’t concentrate on my coding for the rest of the afternoon. What’s seen cannot be unseen. And maybe that’s enough, to know that he thinks I’m not an eyesore. Or at least, that there was a day, for a moment, when he liked what he saw when he looked at me. He sees me differently now, I know that.

But what choice did I have? When Veld dropped his bombshell - _Directors, we’ve found Avalanche HQ. It’s in the cave complex north of Gaea’s Cliff, beyond the Great Glacier - _of course I had to let Pia know. I was too far in to give up or turn back. That hideout went up in smoke once Zack Fair and Reno and their cohorts were finished rampaging through it; Fuhito lost his laboratory, most of which I’d paid for. His Raven program never recovered. That’s the one good thing to have emerged from the whole debacle. Tseng is wrong if he thinks I feel no regrets. I wish I'd never helped Fuhito get his hands on that bloody data disk.

Of course I encouraged Dad to sack Veld. Of course I denied it when Tseng confronted me. I was hoping Dad would give the Turks to me. Lazard had SOLDIER. Why couldn’t I have the Turks? I never dreamed he’d give them to Uncle Martin. The unfairness of it all made me livid, and because I was angry I did something stupid and childish: I sent a message to Fuhito via Pia letting him know _Veld’s out, Heidegger’s in, total confusion in the chain of command._ I suppose the rational part of my brain hoped Fuhito might take advantage of the situation to find a weak spot in the security around Dad and finally, finally, fulfil his side of the bargain, because quite honestly I was getting tired of waiting.

What did the fool do instead? Launch an attack on Junon. Just the sort of grandiose but ultimately hollow gesture he loves. Did he kill a lot of people? Yes. Did he damage Shinra’s operating capacity or dent our defences in any way? Not one whit. Even if he’d managed to seize control of Junon, what good would it have done him? Or, more pertinently, me? Was he planning to take Dad out using the bloody _cannon_? He knew by then that it’s not built to turn the one hundred and thirty or so degrees needed to aim at Midgar. Fu-fu-fu fool. He has no head for strategy.

I watched the events going down in Junon on the monitors in my mausoleum. My Turks were being horrifically mismanaged. If I didn’t do something fast, some or possibly all of the Turks would be injured or even killed. Tseng was out there with them. So I ate humble pie and went looking for Veld to tell him I would support his immediate reinstatement. Too late; I’d missed my chance. He had already gone upstairs to bargain with my father. _Give me back my Turks, or I’ll go public with everything I know._ Dad told me about it afterwards. All that was left for me to do was to reassure the old man he’d made the right decision.

I wish Veld hadn’t called me the ‘mastermind behind Avalanche’ in front of Tseng and the others. Now, no matter what I say, a part of them will always believe it. That’s why Tseng thinks I’m lying when I tell him the truth. My truth contradicts what Veld told him.

Did the old fox really think I’d have authorised that stupid pointless attack on Junon? Or the attempt to kidnap Hojo? If I’d really been controlling Avalanche, does he think my old man would still be alive?

If anybody was the mastermind in my operation, it was Armiger. I told her what I wanted and she made it happen. I was her apprentice. Once a week I flew down to Junon to sit at her feet and learn all she could teach me. I looked forward immensely to our Fridays as a break from my daily grind of stifling boredom. She told me I had a good head for business. “Like father, like son,” she said. She thought I’d be pleased by the comparison. For her sake, I pretended to be.

Once I asked if her daughter Flourish had a good head for business too, and she laughed and said the kid’s head was too full of boys, fashion and pop music to leave room for anything else. She dotes on that girl. Perhaps I envied Flourish. Just a little bit.

Where’s Armiger now, I wonder? Hiding, certainly. She’ll be all right, I think. I’m sure she’s as clever at hiding as she is at making money. She knows it won’t be forever. When I’m President, I will appoint her my Director of Financial Operations. I’ll find a job for Flourish too, anything she likes. It’s the least I –

What’s this now? Skeeter, our golden-haired cherub, carrying a step-ladder over his shoulder, a bundle of fabric under his arm, an electric drill, and what looks like a curtain rod. Well, well. Ask and it shall be given.

“Good morning, Skeeter. Or is it good afternoon?”

He doesn’t reply. It seems they’ve agreed to give me the silent treatment. Except, of course, when they’re taking their anger out on me. He won’t even look at me, never mind speak to me. That can’t be easy for him. Skeeter loves to talk.

What an eager beaver he is, plugging in, heading up the ladder, getting straight to work. I wish he’d brought me some noise protection. Or is this ear-splitting racket my punishment for making the request in the first place?

Skeeter’s not like the others. They were born to be Turks. With Skeeter, one gets the impression he became a Turk almost by accident. It’s not that he’s less authentic than the others, he simply feels - misplaced. He’s sociable and easy-going. If they ever bring themselves to forgive me, he’ll be the first. Holding grudges isn’t in his nature. He radiates all the genuine charisma Reno only wishes he had. Naturally he’s Dad’s favourite. Everybody loves Skeeter. So attentive, good-humoured, not excessively clever, and he plays golf like a pro. The son Dad never had. It’s the biggest joke ever. If Dad only knew...

The rest of them, they’re like cats: they don’t need a reason to slash your ankle with their claws. They’ll do it even if they love you, when the mood is on them. They’re forever taking swipes at each other. This playful blood-letting seems integral to them, somehow. Playing nice with a cat, grovelling before them, saying sorry, is not the way to win their respect. Cats despise anyone they suspect of trying to win their affections. They save their true respect for other cats.

Skeeter doesn’t appear to have the same natural inclination to violence. He’ll content himself with the silent treatment, unless I give him a reason to do something more.

He’s stopped drilling. Now’s my chance. “Hey. Faggot.”

He’s turning to look at me. He can’t help himself.

“Did you hear what I called you, faggot?”

He’s frowning at me. As if I were a puzzle.

“Tell me, does my old man know you’re a poof?”

That’s a rhetorical question. Of course Dad doesn’t know. It’s funny, as in ironic, because if Dad’s told me once he’s told me a thousand times that he can tell at a glance when someone’s a - to borrow his delicate phrase - _turdburglar._

“He’s never asked,” says Skeeter mildly.

“He’d sack you if he knew the truth. He wouldn’t willingly let someone like you come anywhere near him. You know that, you deceitful bugger. Silence is tantamount to a lie. How dare you lie to your President, you mincing effeminate freak.” Another choice term I learned at my old man’s knee.

He’s raising the drill again. I hope whoever is watching comes in and stops him before he puts it through my skull. But I’m not counting on it.

“Well,” he says slowly, “I guess at least I’m not the one who tried to kill him.”

What does he mean by that? He’s not _the one_. The one what? The one of the two of us, him and me, because we’re the same and he knows that? They’ve never mentioned it, not even Aviva, but I know they know. Veld _definitely _knows. They’ve been spying on me since the day I was born, they’ve got it all on file. And that one time, I didn’t even try to hide it. But they won’t own up to knowing. They won’t even drop a hint. That’s how they torture me. Because it’s still just remotely within the realms of possibility that they _don’t_ know, and that’s the only reason I’m still Vice-President.

“What are you saying, Turk? Are you trying to insinuate that I’m a faggot?”

His shrug says, _who cares?_

I’m really looking for something more in the way of a reaction here. “Who do you think you are? I’m not the faggot in this room, you disgusting fairy.”

“I never said you were, V.P.”

“And even if I were, you’re not my type.”

“Yeah? So what is your type?”

Is there an audio channel on that mirror? Can they hear this? What if they’re standing on the other side of that mirror listening and laughing at me? What if Tseng’s there, laughing at me?

I can’t say _my type is none of your business. _I’d sound as if I was chickening out. I’m the one who started this; I can’t back down now. “I’ve had girlfriends.”

“Uh-huh, sure.”

“Kitty Tredescant.” I wonder if he’ll challenge this lie.

No, it seems not. He’s just nodding and looking serious. “Yeah, she was a lovely girl. It’s sad, what’s happened to her. She was really beautiful. You know how to pick ‘em, V.P.” He turns back to the curtain rod.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He can’t hear me. He’s drilling again. That noise - it’s making my skull vibrate.

I can’t leave it like this. I’m not conceding defeat.

The drilling is finished. Four little holes in the wall. He climbs down the ladder, puts the drill on the table, unplugs it. Now it’s my turn.

“My old man’s bound to find out one day. You think he likes you? You think he’ll make an exception for you? You think you’re a _person_ to him? Don’t delude yourself. He’ll destroy you. He hates people who deceive him. I don’t know how you’ve got away with it long as you have. How do you hide it? Do you go off-plate? What do you do, go down to the slums to pick up rent-boys? I heard Reno used to be a rent-boy before - “

“That’s not true!”

Ah, now we’re getting somewhere. This is the way to do it. They’re so protective of one another. “You’re quick to spring to his defense. Why is that, I wonder? Could it be that you and Reno… Oh my god, my old man will go ballistic when he finds out you’re fuck-buddies.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you, man?” Skeeter’s forgotten his curtain-rod. He’s staring at me in disbelief. Good.

“You dare accuse me? I’m not the pervert here. How many of our other employees have got their cock in your arse? You’re a nice middle class boy, I’m sure you feel the appeal of a slum rat like Two-Guns. Or Rude, maybe? Twinks like you always go for his type - “

He’s coming over to me, fists clenched. There’s murder in his eye. I’ve done it! I’ve cracked him.

“Or maybe the big boss himself, hmm? I bet that feels good - “

Bloody fuck this Turk can punch. I think this time my cheek’s bone really broken. Does there ever come a point when a bone’s been broken so many times not even materia can knit it back together?

I’ve fallen to the floor. He’s crouching over me. This is almost as terrifying as it is exhilarating. Or vice versa. Go on, Turk. Kill me. You know you want to. Or fuck me. Everybody wants to fuck Rufus Shinra. Everybody but –

He’s got his hands over my mouth. My mouth and my nose. No air in or out. I would like to lie here quietly and accept my death in a dignified manner, but my body hasn’t received the memo. It’s thrashing like a fish out of water. Oxygen, give me oxygen. Lungs, burning. Ears, ringing. Vision, tunnelling. Panic, rising –

“Stop it,” he says in my ear. “Just - please, stop it. Okay, sir?”

He lifts his hands away from my face, stands up, steps back. Looks me over as if he’s checking there’s no harm done. Turns away. Back to work. He needs to get the curtains up quickly so he can leave.

I’ll stay here on the floor for a bit. I could pretend I’m lying here because I like it, but in fact I have no choice: my limbs aren’t feeling very cooperative right now. I seem to be drenched in sweat.

Was that a success? Hard to tell. I don’t feel as if I’ve won, but I don’t feel as if I lost, either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who skipped the scene with Skeeter, here's what happened:  
It's an open secret among the Turks that Skeeter (Nunchuks) is gay, and the only reason it has to be a secret is because President Shinra is rabidly homophobic. Ironically, Skeeter is his far and away his favourite Turk. Skeeter's charming, friendly, and makes an excellent golf caddy. (He used to be a semi-pro).  
Skeeter came in to put up the curtains and Rufus started taunting him about being gay. What he was really doing - though it's questionable whether he has enough insight to realise this - was enacting how he imagined his father would react to learning that he, Rufus, was gay; he was playing the role of his father, using the various slurs he'd heard coming from his father's mouth. At first Skeeter was simply bewildered, but eventually Rufus found the right button to push, and Skeeter punched him in the face. Satisfied, Rufus lay quietly on the floor while Skeeter finished hanging the curtains.


	23. Chapter 23

“I would appreciate it if you could refrain from provoking my staff.”

Tseng’s been handed the moral high ground and he’s not afraid to use it. Who snitched? Skeeter? One of the ones who were watching?

He’s allowed an entire week to go by before coming to rebuke me. If he thinks that’s the way to bring me into line he’ll soon learn the error of his ways. And I was feeling so much good-will towards him too, until Skeeter set me off. After Skeeter left I tore up the paper on which I’d drawn my flow chart and I ate it, piece by piece. I left the curtains open so they could watch me do it. I didn’t want them fishing the pieces out of my rubbish bin and fitting them back together.

“I’m bored, Tseng.”

“And provoking my staff relieves your boredom?”

“I need more books.”

“That can be arranged.”

“And a bookshelf.”

“I don’t expect you to keep them on the floor.”

“And a desk. And an armchair. And a treadmill. I can feel my muscles atrophying. Stop pretending you need to write all this down. You have a mind like a steel trap.”

He closes the notebook. Now what? Are we going to broach the subject matter of my altercation with Skeeter? Are we going to take that bull by the horns? My heart’s racing; I can't tell if what I'm feeling is excitement, or fear -

“Today,” he says, “I’d like to discuss the events that took place between June and September of last year."

Ah. Apparently we are not. Apparently we are going to step carefully over that steaming little pile of dog poop and pretend we can’t smell it. Am I disappointed? Or relieved?

“Let’s begin with the disappearance of Director Lazard Deusericus.”

Maybe he really can’t smell it. It’s not impossible, I suppose. Maybe it’s only to be expected. There are none so blind, et cetera. Or maybe… he doesn’t think it’s important -

“Rufus, are you listening? What can you tell me about Director Lazard?”

“My brother Lazard?”

“Yes,” says mild-mannered, infinitely patient Tseng. “That Director Lazard.”

“I thought I’d already made it clear to you that I had nothing to do with SOLDIER. Lazard’s own equivocating pusillanimity is entirely to blame for the meltdown in his department.” I wish Tseng would ask me what I’d have done in Lazard’s place. But we don’t have those kinds of conversations any more.

“Did you have anything to do with Lazard’s decision to leave Shinra?”

Ah, he knows something. “Why do you ask?”

“Two days before he disappeared, you took the unusual step of inviting him to dinner in your apartment. A dinner from which you dismissed all the staff after the first course was served. Bouillabaisse, according to the notes I have on file.”

“Does it even matter now?”

“The soup?”

“Why he left.”

“Perhaps not,” says agreeable Tseng. “You don’t have to tell me, of course. If you don’t want to.”

Damn it. He knows I want to. My eviction of Lazard is one of my greatest achievements. I may not have sorted out the Dad problem yet, but at least I managed to get rid of that pseudy self-serving interloper. And it was so easy.

“You must have said something to him, Rufus. What was it?”

“I told him you were on to him.”

“You mean - you told him we knew he was in league with Hollander and Genesis?”

“Exactly.”

“But we didn’t know that. Not then.”

“Obviously, I lied to him.”

“Why?”

“To make him leave, of course. You are being so pedestrian today.”

“The last time we discussed Lazard, you told me you didn’t know he was working with Hollander.”

“That’s right. I didn’t know. Although he _was_ the obvious suspect. Then one day I had a leap of intuition. I thought to myself: if I pretend we already know he’s guilty, and he actually is guilty, he’ll give himself away.”

“So you invited him to dinner in order to confront him?”

Oh my god, his mind is moving like a snail today. Something else is weighing it down. Something that’s not me.

“I would have confronted him in his office, but you’d bugged it. I must admit, I was surprised when he agreed to have dinner with me.”

Probably curiosity was what induced Lazard to accept my invitation. He wasn’t expecting anything significant to happen at our egregious little fraternal get-together because, like everyone else, he consistently underestimated me. If he’d been eating dinner with Dad, or Veld, or anyone he took seriously, he would have been on his guard. But we were alone together, and he thought he could relax - and so, when I said out of the blue, _Listen, Lazard, the Turks know about you and Hollander,_ he didn’t have a hope of hiding the fear and dismay scrambling all over his face.

Tseng says, “How did you know he would run?”

“Lazard’s risk averse. The only time he’s really comfortable is when he’s sitting on the fence. He’s a coward, Tseng. I knew he didn’t have the strength of character to brazen it out. At the first hint of imminent danger to himself, he cut his losses and ran. Case closed?”

“Not quite. When you confronted him, did he ask how you knew?”

“Funnily enough, he didn’t. But he did ask why I was telling him.”

“And you said…?”

“I said I didn’t hate him enough to want him dead.”

“And is that true?”

Oh god, he’s got that look again. He wants it to be true; he wants to believe I tried to spare the bastard’s life. Alas, he is destined to be disappointed. “I didn’t care if Lazard lived or died. I wanted him gone. He annoyed me.”

“And yet… you must have had some sympathy for his motives.”

“Why? Many people have wanted to kill my father. That doesn’t make us fellow-travellers. I have zero sympathy for Lazard. Less than zero. I despise him. He allowed his men, the men entrusted to his command, whose welfare should have been his first concern, to be taken by Hollander and Genesis and turned into abominations, purely in order to satisfy his petty need for revenge.”

“Perhaps he didn’t know what Hollander and Genesis were doing.”

“Of course he knew. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Perhaps he was unable to stop them.”

“Of course he could have put a stop to it, he held the purse strings - “

Too late I see where he’s leading me. I’ve fallen into his trap, run myself onto the stake he set out for me.

“Rufus - “ he’s speaking gently, as if I’ve actually fallen and hurt myself - “When you found out about Fuhito’s Raven program, did you stop funding him?”

I could object that it’s not the same, that Fuhito’s people were not my people, that I didn’t owe them a duty of care. Even to my own ears it sounds specious.

I could tell him the Raven candidates were all volunteers, but he knows that’s not true. He remembers Essai and Sebastian.

I could be honest with him. After the lab in the Great Glacier was destroyed and we all - I mean, we on the Board, we who read Reno and Zack Fair’s mission reports - when it was made clear to us exactly what Avalanche was creating in their test tubes, I told Pia to tell Fuhito he needed to stop. I arranged a meeting with her at a coffee shop where we wouldn’t be easily overheard, and I told her I wouldn’t pay for a replacement lab if Fuhito intended to keep experimenting on human beings. She was shocked to learn what he’d been up to. Pia had joined Avalanche because she was a True Believer in the philosophy of Planet Life; she was a spiritual person, and this side of the Leader was something she hadn’t known about. Two days after our coffee shop rendezvous she got back to me with the assurance that Fuhito had promised to abandon the Raven program. She also told me that I’d misunderstood the nature of the program. Fuhito was using natural organic ingredients to enhance and reveal innate human capabilities. That’s what the True Believer said.

I didn’t believe Fuhito’s promises. Did I know for a fact he was lying? No. Did I strongly suspect it? Yes. Did I seriously consider pulling out from my deal with Avalanche? My memory is that I did, but memories are unreliable. We all like to remember ourselves as better than we really were.

About a fortnight after Pia and I had these two conversations, a postcard arrived in the mail room for me. On one side was a photograph of a bee and a yellow flower, and on the other side the words _Think about it, Mr Vice-President_ were written in pencil. This cryptic message alarmed the mail room supervisor. She passed the postcard to security, who passed it to the Turks. Tseng himself brought it up to my office. “What is this, Rufus? Is somebody threatening you?” I wonder if he remembers that.

I forced a laugh and said, “Oh, it’s just a private joke between me and Alex. Nothing to worry about.”

Tseng was studying the postmark. “This came from Rocket Town. Isn’t Alex at school right now?”

“He probably had someone else post it.”

Tseng left the card with me and went away. I sat for a while thinking, as I had been asked to do, and soon I figured it out. A biologist’s riddle. The bee and the flower are obligate symbiotes. Neither can survive without the other. If one is taken down, the other goes down with it. A threat? Not exactly. A simple statement of fact.

Communicating with Avalanche was always a major headache. Everything went through Pia. Every time I needed to see her or she needed to see me, we had to invent some plausible excuse, not only for Dad and Veld but also for the Avalanche people around her. Those Avalanche people were not meant to know about me, and I was not allowed to know any of their identities. I said she should pretend to be my girlfriend, a suggestion she treated with scorn, firstly because I’d been linked to her sister, secondly because I was too young for her, and thirdly because no one would believe it. Everyone knew she only liked girls.

Since I couldn’t think of an excuse for seeing Pia, and didn’t dare discuss the matter on the phone with her, I had to hold off dealing with the postcard until the end of the week, when I flew down to Junon to consult my financial manager. “Armiger, could you tell Mr Pigeon that I’ve received his message? And that I’m beginning to get tired of waiting.”

“Waiting for what, Vice-President?”

“He owes me a favour. He knows what it is.”

The sooner Avalanche got around to delivering their side of the bargain, the sooner I could get around to wiping Fuhito from the face of the earth.

“Rufus -” Tseng’s been patiently waiting all this time - “Are you going to answer my question?”

“Think what you like. You always do anyway.”

Cool calm and collected Tseng says, “Last June, when Avalanche raided the building and attempted to kidnap Hojo, they had a Raven with them.”

“I know. I remember.”

“Skeeter pushed it into the incinerator. There was no other way to kill it.”

“It was probably a survivor from the Glacier laboratory. Six months wouldn’t have been enough time to get a new lab up and running.”

“Fuhito told Hojo he had a state-of-the-art lab up and running.”

“Fuhito was lying.”

“Are you certain?”

“Of course I’m not certain. He might have had labs I knew nothing about. He almost certainly had other sources of finance I know nothing about. All I can tell you with certainty is that in June last year he had not yet built a new lab with my money. They were still negotiating with Godo over a location for the toy factory.”

“We’ll come to that. Let’s finish with the June raid first. You were the one who gave Avalanche the entry codes for this building and the lab passwords, correct?”

“Yes. I told Pia that since the labs were off limits to PSM, they could cause a diversion by releasing some of Hojo’s creatures.”

“They.” Tseng rolls the word on his tongue as if he’s tasting it. “You always refer to Avalanche as ‘they’, Rufus. As if you weren’t a part of them.”

Really? Now? At long last, he’s starting to understand? “I choose my words with care.”

“Was it your understanding that the purpose of the raid was to assassinate the President?”

“It’s what I told them to do. And they completely ignored my instructions.”

Big brotherly Tseng looks at me and sighs. “Oh, Rufus - “

Don’t you dare oh-Rufus me. Punch me in the face. Break my arm. Pick me up by the scruff of the neck and throw me across the room, beat me with your belt until I’m bleeding - but don’t, don’t use that tone of voice with me. I am not a fucking child.

Relentless Tseng presses on. “Once they’d killed the President, what was to stop them from killing you?”

“We had an agreement_ \- _“

“And it was your impression, was it, that Fuhito is an honourable man?”

My eyes - shit - they’re burning. No. No. This can’t happen. This absolutely cannot happen. I am not going to cry in front of him. I am _not_. Why can’t he just hit me?

“Did you trust him, Rufus?”

He knows I didn’t. Bastard. _Bastard. _Why is he doing this? Is he trying to humiliate me? Nowhere to hide. All I can do is turn my face away.

“After they took Hojo,” he says, “the President wanted to call out Sephiroth, but you were opposed. Why?”

He’s backing off. Fuck. He must have realised I’m on the verge of making a complete show of myself. I suppose he doesn’t want me to cry in front of him any more than I do. I need to say something. Quick! But what?

“I think,” says generous Tseng, filling in for me, “You weren’t worried that Sephiroth would kill Fuhito, were you? In a way, you might almost have welcomed that. You were afraid Sephiroth might capture Fuhito or one of the others and bring them back for questioning. Weren’t you?”

Fuck his kindness. I don’t want his kindness. I don’t deserve it -

Say something, Rufus! Anything!

“They were welcome to Hojo.” All right, good. Voice a bit thick, but not too wobbly. Tone sulky, but he’s used to that. Crisis averted, I think.

“Rufus - “

“What _now_?”

“You’re the one who told them where to find the primary objective, aren’t you?”

“The what?”

“Aerith.”

Oh, god, the way he says her name. Why can’t he say my name like that?

I’ll pretend to be dense. “Who?”

“Aerith Gainsborough. You knew her as Aerith Gast. I’m sure you remember her.”

Of course, because how could anyone forget when their lives have been touched by an angel? “Oh, yes, I think I do vaguely remember her. The Ancient.”

“Were Avalanche welcome to her, too?”

I don’t know what to say. _Yes? We don’t all feel about her the way you do?_

Oh wait, that wasn’t a real question. He’s going on. “They came this close to getting their hands on her. That was less than a month after they failed to snatch Hojo. They’d have taken her if Hunter hadn’t stopped them.”

“You must feel very grateful towards Hunter, then.” Sullen, sulky boy that I am.

“Listen, Rufus. I’m not condoning what you did in any way. Your conspiracy against the President was reckless, selfish, and stupid. And cruel. I think you’re beginning to see this for yourself. Nothing can justify it. Nevertheless, I want you to know that I understand why you did it.”

Oh you do, do you? Fuck you.

“And for what it’s worth, I don’t believe the blame lies entirely with you. You’re very young. The adults responsible for you could have made better choices. I’m including myself in this.”

Please, please, stop, Tseng. God, make him stop.

“The one thing I can’t understand is why you brought Aerith into it. Why would you do that? What would you get out of it?”

This time it’s a real question. He wants an answer. Luckily I have one I prepared earlier. “It would have pissed my old man off immeasurably to know that his arch-enemies had snatched his Cetra from under his nose, and seeing his fat face red with fury would have given me great pleasure.”

Ah yes, that was indeed A Good Answer. Kindly Tseng isn’t looking quite so patiently benevolent. “What were they going to do with her?”

“I don’t know. Find out the secret location of the Promised Land? They’re all Planet Life nutters, they believe in that bullshit.”

“You know what they would have done with her.” There’s a knife-edge in his voice. “I haven’t spent my life keeping her out of Hojo’s clutches only to see her fall into Fuhito’s. You claim to despise Lazard for betraying his men, yet you show no remorse for attempting to consign an innocent girl to the same fate. And for what? To strike a cheap blow at your father. What had she done to deserve that?”

“If we all got what we deserved, Tseng, this world would be a very different place.”

That’s it. His kindness is exhausted. His patience is worn through. He’s done with me. I’m impossible. He’s getting up to go.

“You need to think about what I’ve said. Really think about it, Rufus.”

“Oh my god, are you giving me a time out?”

He’s gone. _Swish-thunk._

I’ll just sit here all alone and wallow in my shame, then, shall I?

He doesn’t understand. I _am_ ashamed of myself. He has no idea.


	24. Chapter 24

Aerith Gainsborough. Aerith Gast. I wonder if she remembers me. It’s been a long time.

Before Dad brought me to live in this building, back when we still lived in the house with the big garden, I didn’t get to see Tseng very often. It’s possible that my six memories of him from that time are all there is. Which means I remember everything… And what I chiefly remember is the pleasure of his undivided attention. Whenever he came to my house, he was mine. Veld must have seen to that. Veld did everything in his power to foster my attachment to his protegé. The old Turk had his reasons.

That blissful existence came to an end when we moved into this building. I discovered I had a rival for Tseng’s attention. I learnt what it means to be jealous.

Almost as soon as we moved in, my nannies began whispering to each other about another child being held somewhere in the building, a child who was never allowed to go out, and that struck a chord with me because I felt I wasn’t allowed out either. I went to nursery school, of course, and to Johnny’s or Allegra’s for play dates, but I’d lost my beloved garden. I couldn’t spontaneously run outside any more to walk barefoot in the wet grass or play on the swing.

I resolved to find this other child. Giving my nannies the slip was easy. They continued to lose themselves in the corridors of this building long after I’d memorised the floor plan. In those days Dad and I lived many floors lower down. The labs hadn’t been finished, the science department wasn’t on site, security was comparatively lax, and nobody would have been excessively alarmed to see me exploring around on my own.

How exactly I managed to find the right door, I can’t remember. I do remember two PSM were standing guard outside it. They didn’t forbid me to knock, so I knocked, and Tseng opened the door. A little girl not much older than me was sitting on his shoulders.

There are no words to fully express the shock I felt when I saw him. Until that moment, I don’t think I’d really understood that he existed when he was away from me. That he had a life of his own, separate from me. What was he doing here? How could he be in the same building as me, yet not be _with_ me? Why was he playing chocobos with this strange girl instead? A terrible sick feeling swept over me, a sensation of betrayal that was entirely new to me, and so painful that even now it hurts to remember. To this day, I’ve never known such a pain. The first cut is the deepest, I suppose.

A woman told him to bring me in. She knew my name. I’d never seen her before in my life. Who were these people? I didn’t care who they were; I wanted to leave and I was taking Tseng with me. I grabbed his hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

The girl hit me. She punched me in the shoulder with such force my arm went numb. I bit my lip to stop the tears from bursting forth.

The girl’s - Aerith’s - face was scrunched up and furious. Tseng and Mrs Gast looked appalled. No. Terrified. Why was Tseng looking so scared? Why wasn’t he giving her a smack? She shouldn’t have hit me. No one was allowed to hit me. If I told on her, she’d be in big trouble.

Mrs Gast took hold of Aerith’s wrists and crouched down and said to her, “That was a very, very, very naughty thing to do,” which made me feel better. 

“You shouldn’t hit people,” I said priggishly. “It’s not nice.”

I really don’t suppose I made a very good first impression on her.

Mrs Gast said, “We should offer our guest something to eat. Aerith, go get the cake.”

The cake was delicious. I felt mollified. When I’d finished eating, Tseng took me back to the nannies. On the way he said, “Don’t tell anyone she hit you. She shouldn’t have done it, but she didn’t know."

He didn’t need to ask. I’d already made up my mind not to tell. I had decided to be magnanimous.

But also, there was this: I could see the girl was important to him. If I did something to hurt her, Tseng might be angry with me.

From that day on, no power on earth could keep me away from the Gast’s apartment. I think I got it into my head that Tseng lived there. The nannies were under orders to stop me from visiting _those people_, but the nannies were easy to elude. After a while, they stopped trying. The orders must have been rescinded. Perhaps my old man, or Veld, had thought it over and concluded, _where’s the harm?_

Mrs Gast encouraged my visits. With the benefit of hindsight, I’m sure she thought I could only be good for Aerith, and by good I mean guarantee her safety. Perhaps not in the short-term, but in the long run. She and Tseng both called me Aerith’s friend. Did they think we really were friends? Adults see so little. Tseng was only fifteen then, but in my eyes he was a man. Aerith liked to pretend she was an adult too. She was - is - maybe a year or two older than I am. She was always complaining to Tseng and her mother about me. _He’s such a baby. Why does he have to keep coming here? He can’t do anything._ I thought that was a bit rich, since I could already read quite difficult chapter books and do fractions. She didn’t even know what fractions were, yet she was older than me!

Right from the start she made it clear she was in charge. Her turf, her rules. I complied because I wanted to show Tseng what a good boy I was. Only once did I attempt to shift the balance of power. I said to her, “Why don’t you come up and play with my toys? I have lots more toys than you do.” Tseng was looking on, so I added, “You can play with any of them. All of them, if you like.”

Tseng attempted to intervene, saying something along the lines of, “Aerith, you know that’s not possible. Don’t ask your mother.”

Naturally she ignored him. “Mum, mum, can I go and play with Rufus’s toys?” Her mother came out of their little kitchen and said, “I’m afraid not, darling. It wouldn’t be a good idea.” There was an underlying sorrow in her tone that even I, self-centred brat that I was, picked up on.

The moment Tseng’s back was turned Aerith hit me with a ruler. “You’re so _stupid_,” she hissed. I honestly didn’t blame her.

On one of the rare occasions when I had Tseng entirely to myself, I asked him why Aerith and her mother could never leave their apartment. I didn’t get an answer.

Another time I asked her, “Why don’t you go to school? School is fun. Everybody should go to school.”

“I just don’t. I’m not like you. I don’t have to go to school. I already know everything.”

By eavesdropping on my nannies when they whispered together, I learned there was something wrong with Aerith and her mother. Nobody knew exactly what the problem was. Some rare thing. They weren’t like other people. That was why they couldn’t leave their apartment. They needed constant medical attention.

_So if they get cured, _I thought, _they’ll go away._

Information like that in the hands of a small nasty child such as myself inevitably becomes a weapon. We were having one of our regular tugs-of-war over I can’t remember what, the best crayon or the last biscuit, and I had had enough of always being bossed around by her. Tseng wasn’t there that day. As soon as I was sure her mother couldn’t overhear us, I leaned forward and whispered, “You’re sick and you’re going to die soon.”

I said it because I wanted to see what would happen. What happened is that she punched me between the eyes like a Turk. Blood poured from my nose. Aerith started crying. Her mother started crying. _Why are they crying? _I wondered. _I’m the one who got punched in the face_.

I could have made her disappear. Boss-eyed Bridget the Biter had disappeared after one chomp on my arm, and I had _liked_ Bridget. So why didn’t I? The truth is, whenever Aerith hit me, and she hit me quite often, I had usually done something to bring it on myself. Kids have their code of honour. I must also have instinctively understood on some subconscious level that my life would be less interesting without her. When the nannies asked what on earth had happened to my poor nose, I told them I’d been turning cartwheels in the corridors and slipped.

My memory insists that the next thing that happened took place immediately after Aerith punched me and was a consequence of that punch, but reason asserts that several weeks must have passed, perhaps even a month, and that Aerith’s assault on my face is unconnected to the tragedy that befell them. We were lying on the floor of her lounge watching the televised chocobo racing, which, thanks to Aunt Pansy, was something I could lecture Aerith about, and in fact I was in the process of doing so when the door burst open and Commander Veld came in looking angry. My stomach immediately tied itself in knots. I thought I was in trouble. He said, “Tseng, take Rufus back where he belongs. Aerith must stay here.”

_Oh,_ I thought_, he’s angry with her, not me. That’s all right then. _

Aerith’s mother stood up. The plate of cookies on her lap fell to the floor and shattered. Tseng got down on his hands and knees to pick up the pieces. I thought_, why are you doing that? Come on, let’s go._

He took me up in the lift and gave me to nanny. Then he left me. He was in a hurry to go. I didn’t see him again for a long time.

I’ve never been able to find out exactly what happened that day. The Board reports don’t tell the whole story. It seems Veld had been coming up with one excuse after another to keep Aerith and her mother out of Hojo’s labs. For reasons I have never been able to fathom, Dad is convinced that because Aerith is half-Cetra (or so they say), she can ‘lead us to the Promised Land’. How a hard-headed pragmatist like Dad can believe the mystical nonsense of the Cetra is a complete mystery to me. We’re talking here about a man who scolded a tiny child for believing in fairy tales, a man who got angry when his little boy admitted to a fear of space aliens. It’s as if he has this one great big blind spot where Aerith Gast is concerned. Wishful thinking run mad? If only the promised land really existed. An inexhaustible supply of mako! Shinra’s all-conquering dominance ensured for a thousand years! Wouldn’t that be sweet? Wouldn’t we be on easy street?

Aerith’s mother’s refusal to cooperate drove Dad to the limits of his patience. He kept threatening to hand them over to Hojo. I don’t know how he thought Hojo was going to get the information he wanted. Did he think it was encoded in their DNA? God, why is he such a scientific illiterate? On that day, it seems, Dad lost his temper and signed the order transferring their custody from Veld to the science department. Tseng helped them escape. He shot one of the PSM guarding the doors so they could get away. Dad wanted him executed. Veld had to grovel and plead for his life.

Tseng was sent away for a while, it was part of his punishment, and when he came back and I saw him again, he was different. The sadness that always permeated the atmosphere in Aerith’s apartment had found a new home in his eyes. When I realised what losing them had done to him, I was jealous, yes, and I was angry, yes, and I felt sorry for him… But that was also when I began to understand that the whole world did not always revolve entirely around me.

Like everyone else, I believed Aerith had died in that ill-fated escape. I only found out she’s still alive in July of last year. Veld has been shielding her all this time. Why did he decide to tell my father the truth at last? Perhaps because he already had too many nails in his coffin, or perhaps because he thought the truth was about to come out some other way and wanted Dad to hear it from him first. He broke the news to us at a Board meeting. Veld’s never been closer to death than he was at that moment. My old man would have shot him if he’d had a gun to hand.

Dad’s irrational about that girl. They all are. I don’t understand it. Her secret is a dud. She’s not worth it.

The revelation of her survival made me angry too, but not with Veld. With Tseng. _What, she’s been alive all this time and you never told me_? It felt like opening that door all over again and seeing him standing there with a strange girls’ arms wrapped around him as if she owned him_._ Self-righteous, unadulterated fury consumed me. All I could think of was that I needed to make her go away for good, so I told Avalanche to come and take her. I made the call within ten minutes of leaving the Board room.

I told myself I was doing it for Tseng. To save him from being torn between divided loyalties; to stop him making again the same mistake that had almost got him killed. I convinced myself I was acting for his own good. Had I become so good at lying that I believed the lies I told myself? I was jealous and I wanted her gone and I didn’t care how it was done. I am ashamed of that.

What I did to Aerith was perhaps less thoroughly wicked than the Raven program. She came to no harm, after all. Yet I regret it more. The fact that I conspired to hurt her is something that will always come between Tseng and me, but that isn’t the only reason I regret it. I regret it because she didn’t deserve it. Tseng’s right about that.

I don’t want to be the kind of man who would do such things. Tseng’s right about that, too.

Self-satisfied, vindictive, completely indifferent to human suffering…. Veld says Dad wasn’t always like this, and I suppose I have to take his word for it. He knew Dad when Dad was young. But if that’s true, then it means Dad has _allowed_ himself to become who he is today. There must have been a point when he could see what he was turning into. He must have had friends once who reminded him about the lines we don’t cross if we want to stay human. When did Dad stop feeling shame? Veld was his last real friend, and now Dad wants to kill him.

Is that why Dad wants him dead? Because Veld reminds him of who he used to be before he turned into a monster, and he can’t stand it?

His crazy obsession has made Aerith Gainsborough’s life a hard one. I can make her life worse, or I can make it easier. The choice isn’t really about her. It’s about me and who I want to be. All she wants, I imagine, is her freedom. I may be unable to sympathise with Lazard, but at least I’m still able to recognise a fellow human being’s desire for liberty. When I’m President, she can have it. We’ll let the bird out of the cage. Go, fly, be free…

But how long will it be until that day comes? I’m stuck in here now. Can Tseng keep her alive until my old man dies?

Just because I’m full of good resolutions, that doesn’t mean I like or approve of what she does to him. I don’t have to, do I? I see her clearly. She divides his loyalties, and for a man like Tseng that’s the equivalent of cutting off his right arm. I don’t believe she truly cares for him at all. If she did, she wouldn’t put him through this. She’d find a way to leave Midgar. She can’t possibly be watched more closely than I am. If I could find a way to conspire with Avalanche right under the eyes of the Turks, she can find a way to get out of this city. She needs to go far away, beyond’s Dad reach. There are still such places. Fuhito and Genesis have managed to hide themselves in the world. An ordinary girl from the slums should have no problem.

But Tseng can’t let her do that. He can’t bring her in and he can’t let her go.

When I’m President, I’ll let her go. Wherever she wants to go, whatever she needs in order to get there, I’ll make sure she has it. We owe her that. And if Tseng wants to go with her, I’ll let him go too. You can’t keep people on a leash. I’ll let him go if that’s what he wants. I will. I absolutely will. It is decided. I shall be magnanimous.


	25. Chapter 25

That was a good lunch. Tofu stir-fry, potato salad, and strawberry ice cream. Odd combination, but good. Or it might have been dinner. He hasn’t brought me a clock yet. It might have been dinner at breakfast time. They’re giving me the silent treatment again. I can’t decide which is better, and by better I mean which gets under their skin more: to meet silence with silence, or to batter against their wall with an endless stream of meaningless jabber. I try one and then I try the other. Neither really makes any difference. Nobody’s beaten me or throttled me or broken any of my bones for… Has it been eight or nine meals I’ve eaten since Skeeter punched me? I think my disorientation in time is a deliberate strategy on their part. It’s not just my mind that’s affected. My body feels as if it doesn’t quite belong to me. As if I’m… weightless.

Stone walls do not a prison make. My mind doesn’t have to stay here. I can imagine I’m somewhere else. Junon. I like Junon. Midgar makes me feel as if I’m trapped inside a bell jar. In Junon the salty air smells like freedom. I love anywhere with a wide horizon. In Midgar one can never escape the throb of the reactors. In Junon, there’s the murmur of the waves. The restless sea never stands still, and yet the sound it makes is so soothing. Give me the open ocean at sunset and a strong wind filling my sails. If I could have a dozen lives, I’d spend one of them as a sailor.

Midgar is Dad’s city. Junon could be my city. I’ve always been happy there. Or at least, never bored. When will I see it again? Not for a long time, by the look of things.

Last year, when I was Vice-President in name only, when I spent my days being patronised and talked down to by adults who were amused to see me playing at being an executive, my trips to Junon were the highlight of my week. I knew Armiger would have a stack of quarterly reports waiting on my desk, from which she expected me to produce ratio and performance analyses. These were no mere schoolroom exercises. She used my analyses as the basis for her forward planning, so I had to get it right. She made me work hard. I relished the challenge.

Armiger told me any fool can make money if they start with money. Making money from nothing is harder but it can be done. The rules are simple. Buy low, sell high. Diversify. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.

Especially if that basket is made of mako, Dad.

Do your due diligence. Research, research, research. Don’t be lazy. Know your markets. Stay informed. She said, “If you start with a fortune and it all goes down the drain, there’s only one explanation: you’re a damn fool.”

“There’s a lot of it about,” I said. “Foolery.”

“Too right. But you won’t be one of them, Vice-President.”

Armiger enjoyed teaching me. I know she did because she told me so. My teachers have always enjoyed teaching me. Even Reno enjoyed teaching me how to fly a helicopter; he couldn’t help himself. It’s because I’m a quick study. That’s what my reports cards always said. _It’s a pleasure to teach a child who takes so much pleasure in learning. _

As I got to know her better, I started to talk to her about some of the things going on in my life. Was it because I sensed she approved of me? She’s a woman who has clawed her way up from the slums, fighting for every gil she owns, and in that sense she couldn’t be more different from me, though she’s in many ways a female version of my namesake, great-grandfather Rufus, whose canny business acumen laid the foundations for our family fortunes. If she’d been a man, Dad would have liked her; but if she’d been a man, she probably wouldn’t have come to work with me. She’s giving her daughter all the things she never had. Maybe, in that sense, she sees something of her child in me?

Was that why I began to unburden myself to her? I told her about Alex. No names; I said I had a friend who’d lost his way: he took too many drugs and his parents were divorcing. I told her he’d started to confide in me and then changed in mind, and that his lack of trust had hurt me. Armiger said sometimes the only help we can offer is to be a good listener. “Am I a good listener?” I asked her. She said problem solvers aren’t always necessarily good listeners. They’re too focused on finding a solution. Sometimes, she said, there is no solution, except kindness. 

When Aerith Gast was on my mind, after Avalanche failed to kidnap her, I confessed to Armiger that I’d done something I regretted. I’d put a friend of a friend in harm’s way. She didn’t ask me who or where or when; Armiger isn’t a nosy gossip. She asked me _why_ I’d done it. I said _because I think she’s bad for him._ Armiger asked me if that was really my choice to make.

She’s never told me much about her own life. If Armiger had problems of her own, she didn’t share them with me. Once in a while, though, if she was in an expansive mood, she would tell me stories from her early days with Don Corneo and his gang, before the Plate went up. All her stories were funny ones, anecdotes or character sketches. The poverty, the crime, the deprivation: she didn’t speak of these things directly. I read between the lines. If what I crave most is freedom, what Armiger craves most is security. She needs to be certain she’ll never have to go hungry again.

One day I said, “Would you laugh at me if I told you I envy you, Armiger?”

She looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “_You_ envy _me_? Vice-President, you’re crackers.”

“I think it must be very satisfying to know that you owe everything you have to your own hard work.”

“_Very_ hard work, Vice-President. You don’t know how lucky you are. Plenty of people would give their right arm to be in your shoes.”

“I’m aware that’s what it looks like from the outside. But what you need to understand about my father is that he’s insufferably smug. Monstrously smug. Like a grinning Bomb - the monster, I mean, not the explosive. It’s impossible to get him to see things from my point of view. He’s climbed the highest mountain, he’s standing on top of the world, and he’s carried me there to stand beside him. Did I reach the top by my own efforts? No. Everybody knows I’m the _lucky_ one. ‘One day all this will be yours, my son.’ But what if I don’t want it? What if I want to climb my own mountain? Where’s _my_ mountain? How can I surpass him when there’s nowhere higher to go? From up here, the only way on every side is down.”

“Is that what got you involved with Avalanche? You want to tear down what your father built so that you can start again?”

“Well - of course!”

“Bit of a cliché, isn’t it?”

“Maybe. But it’s how I feel. I want to make something of my own.”

“That’s what we’re doing here, isn’t it?”

“Armiger, what made you want this job?” I’d never asked her before.

She took a long time to answer. “I care about my daughter’s future.”

“You’re a True Believer? You think my old man’s business is killing the planet?”

“Isn’t it? And don’t call your father ‘old man’, it’s not respectful.”

“You know what the real problem is, Armiger? One day, we’re going to run out of mako. Dad thinks that somewhere out there there’s a limitless supply of mako and all we have to do is find it. That’s why he started the space program. He thinks we’ll find mako in outer space. That’s how his mind works. Dream up a fantastical solution to a real problem and then keep throwing money at it, as if that could make it true. Don’t they say the definition of insanity is to keep doing the same thing over and over again expecting different results?”

Armiger took a minute or so to think about what I said. After being talked down to by my fellow executives all week, her respect for my words was balm to my soul. Then she got up, went to a shelf, pulled down a large file, and handed it to me. “You might be interested in this. Solar power start-up. They’ve completed the design stage, now they need investment to start production.”

When Nibelheim exploded in our faces -

Oh look, my door’s opening. What’s this? Tseng, carrying a large box, a banker’s box. It looks heavy. I hope there’s something interesting for me inside it.

He puts the box on the table, opens it, lifts out some irregularly-shaped thing wrapped in a burlap sack and sets it beside the box. “Books,” he says, indicating the box.

Let me see, let me see. _Escape from Wutai, Parts 1 and 2_. _Golgi Mechanics in Cell Metabolism. Mideel on 200 Gil a Day! _What an eccentric mishmash. A dozen _Stamp the Dog _comics. _The Official Materia Fusion Handbook for Shinra Personnel._ “Where did you find these, in somebody’s skip?”

“They were lying around the office. I know they won’t all be to your taste. If you write a list of what you’d like, we can order books from Domino’s library.”

Oh, wait - now here’s a find. Marius’ _The Tales of North_, my childhood favourite. The very edition I remember, with illustrations by Dilawri. I’m going to treasure this.

“Damn,” says Tseng.

“What?”

“The door didn’t shut properly. That cat’s come in. Go on, shoo - “

I’ve seen it around their offices before, this little ginger tabby with the four white paws. It once killed a rat in my old man’s office. “Cats go where they please,” I remind him. “Let it satisfy its curiosity. I don’t mind.”

I gave the dead rat to Dark Nation. She loves them.

Which reminds me. “Tseng, do you ever hear anything about Dark Nation?” I picture her joyfully galloping through the long grassy meadows on Aunt Pansy’s farm, but I also picture her curled miserably in the corner of the bedroom I always use when I’m there, refusing to eat, pining for me.

“She’s fine, as far as I know.”

“She’s not used to being apart from me.”

“The sooner we round up Fuhito and his cronies, the sooner you’ll be reunited,” says brisk Tseng. He starts unwrapping the object in the burlap sack, saying as he does so, “I want to ask you about this - “

It’s a large, shapeless lump of clear resin, studded all over with the kind of things you might find under a bed when the floor hasn’t been swept for years: a coat-hanger, a small doll’s head, fag-ends, a syringe, a pair of ticket-stubs, a threadbare bra… Some of these items are suspended inside the resin, and some of them poke out of it.

My greatest invention. Well, no, not entirely my invention. I didn’t physically make it. Some unsung hero in Avalanche was responsible for that. But it’s my brainchild.

Tseng says, “This art scam of yours - “

“Scam? I’ll have you know, this is legitimate art. That piece has more than held its value. I paid fifty thousand gil for it, and if you took it down to Babbington’s right now they’d give you at least a hundred and fifty thousand, no questions asked.”

I love his face when he’s lost for words.

“A hundred and fifty _thousand_?” he says.

“That’s a return of over two hundred percent in less than a year. I’d be lucky if I made ten percent per year on my investments. Nobody who bought one of these - uh - sculptures - “

“I wouldn’t call this a sculpture. I’d call it a rip-off.”

“That’s because you know nothing about art. These pieces express a bold new take on permanising the ephemeral. Our fear of our own mortality is immortalised in this block of resin, where we can see everything, yet alter nothing. _We_ are the cigarette that’s been smoked and cast aside. _We_ are the expired tickets for a journey that ended long ago.”

Ah, ha ha, I’ve made him smile.

“Hmm. Be that as it may, Rufus, what I’d like to know is whether the Babbingtons were in on it.”

“Do you mean, were Caroline and her father complicit in selling worthless crap to punters in exchange for fantastically large quantities of gil?”

The little cat is sniffing around my bare ankles. Its whiskers are tickling me. If I sit down carefully, and don’t startle it with any sudden movements, it might jump into my lap and investigate me further.

“You know what I mean,” says Tseng.

“It was a bit of fun. A way of raising money. Foolproof, really.”

“Explain.”

“I told Avalanche what to make and they made it. On my instructions, Mercedes took the first one to Caroline Babbington and told her it was going to be the next big thing. I’d designed it to appeal to Caroline. This is the kind of art she goes wild for. Caroline put the thing in her gallery and stuck a ten thousand gil price tag on it. Pia hired someone to go in and buy it on behalf of an anonymous collector. It sold so quickly Caroline was eager to take two more. She bumped the price up to twenty thousand. I bought one, and I gave Johnny Casarini the money to go in and buy the other and say it was for his mother. He owed me a favour.”

“What favour?”

“I pulled Heidegger’s strings to get Johnny into SOLDIER, remember?”

“Hmm. Yes. Go on.”

“Well, that’s it, really. Art has no objective monetary value. It’s worth whatever people are willing to pay. I showed my twenty thousand gil’s worth of rubbish to Reeve and told him he should get in on a good thing before the prices skyrocketed. Caroline had sold out, so he put a reserve on the next one to come in. Then we sent in another mystery buyer. Then I went back in and bought a second one, and told Caroline it was because I loved the first one so much. A paparazzo was hanging around the gallery so I let him take a few shots of the Vice-President proudly showing off his newest acquisition. After that, the bandwagon kept moving forward under its own momentum.”

And here’s the little cat. It has accepted my invitation. Hello, little cat. Shall I rub behind your ears? No? Under your chin, then. Yes, that’s good.

I wish I could press my face into the soft fur of your belly, feel the rumble of your purr against my ear. But we’ve only just met. We don’t know each other well enough yet for such liberties.

“Didn’t Caroline Babbington ever ask to meet the - I hesitate to use the word artist...”

“Mercedes told her the artist wanted to remain anonymous. If we’d had to, we could have put someone forward. But Caroline didn’t insist. The mystique was a good selling point. We could have gone on making money indefinitely with these pieces. As I said, they’ve held their value. And now that there won’t be any more of them, I imagine they’ll soon be very valuable indeed. Nobody lost money. I’m not a con-artist, Tseng.”

Little cat, you’ve settled down very comfortably, haven’t you? Nice and snug in the crook of my elbow. We’re going to be friends, I can tell. For such a small cat, you have a big purr. Very rumbly.

“Did Angie Armiger know about this scam?”

“It wasn’t a scam. It was a spoof. And no, Armiger wasn’t in on it. Pranking the art establishment isn’t her style. Of course, once we started making money I had to fill her in. I gave her the first piece we bought. She didn’t like it any more than you do. She couldn’t believe how much it was worth, either. Tseng - “

“Yes?”

“If you had any news about Armiger, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? I mean, if you had her in custody, you would tell me, wouldn’t you?”

He’s hesitating “I - You don’t know?”

He hesitated only briefly. A second, at most. But why? Does he think she’s with Fuhito? And that I’m privy to their secret hiding place, and am keeping this information from him? How many times have I told him already that I don’t know? Does he think I’m not serious about wanting to get out of here? Nobody on this planet could desire Fuhito’s elimination more than I do.

“All I know for sure is that you won’t find her with Fuhito. She’ll be hiding somewhere clever. That day - the day this all blew up in our faces - I called to warn her before I followed you to Corel. What about Flourish? Did she take Flourish with her?”

“The girl is still at school. The fees for the next two years were paid upfront some months ago. Just after the Legend destroyed Avalanche’s Wutai HQ, in fact. It looks like your financial manager could see which way the wind was blowing.”

“Armiger’s always erred on the side of caution. Tseng - you understand the girl wasn’t involved, don’t you? Flourish knows nothing about any of this.”

Why is he looking at me as if I’ve said something dim?

Oh, of course - because he already told me Armiger’s daughter is still at school. If he suspected she knew something useful, she wouldn’t be in school. She’d be in Junon prison. And if he thought Flourish Armiger knew that her mother and the Vice-President of Shinra Inc had been conspiring together to fund Avalanche, she’d be dead. That’s his job: to bury the secret of my misdemeanour so deeply no trace of it will ever come back to haunt me.

“Can you keep her safe, Tseng? Armiger’s daughter, I mean? I owe her that.”

“We’re stretched to the limit right now.”

“Can you at least keep an eye on her?”

“Yes, we can do that. Now, this - art…”

“It’s a dead end for your investigation, I’m afraid. We didn’t even break any laws.”

Tseng contemplates the resin monstrosity. “Are you sure about that?”

Oh my god, he’s making a joke! And I’m laughing. And it wasn’t even paticularly funny.

This little cat is so fast asleep its little pink tongue is hanging out of its mouth. Animals are generous with their trust. I’m a stranger to this cat, yet it instinctively knows it’s safe with me. Maybe if Dad had had a pet to care for, he wouldn’t have degenerated into such a self-centred twat -

Who am I kidding? He’d have hired somebody to take care of it for him.

“Shall I take it?” says Tseng.

“No, don’t disturb it, it’s sleeping.”

I look up. He’s smiling at me, as if - Have I said something funny? Oh, he didn’t mean the cat. He means the hideous resin monstrosity. “Yes, take it away, I don’t want to look at it. Take it down to Babbington’s and get them to sell it. Use the money for - for whatever you like. Some good cause. You choose.”

He’s wrapping it up. “Shall I make a donation to the Junon orphan’s fund in the Vice-President’s name?”

“Whatever you like.”

There he goes, carrying one hundred and fifty thousand gil’s worth of rubbish in his arms, and leaving me the richer by far, since I now have three things I didn’t have when I woke up: a cat, a much-loved book, and the memory of Tseng cracking a joke. I don’t know which of the three of them makes me happiest.

Why is he being so kind to me, cat? This wasn’t the good cop act he puts on for interrogation purposes. Today’s kindness was authentic. What do you think? Can he have forgiven me? I don’t see how that’s possible. I don’t expect to be forgiven. What I did isn’t something that can be forgiven.

But hold on a minute. I’m missing a distinction here. The distinction between the crime and the criminal. The crime can’t be forgiven, but perhaps the criminal can hope for forgiveness, once he’s served his time and taken his punishment like a man.

For what I did or tried to do to my old man, I have no remorse. My methods were, I admit, somewhat juvenile, and I trusted the wrong people, but that’s not a crime. And if I had succeeded, the world would now be a better place. That’s the bottom line.

But I do feel guilty for what I did to the Turks.

Correction: I don’t just feel guilty_, _I _am _guilty.

I wish I knew what it is I’ve done to earn his kindness today.

What’s that, little cat? I shouldn’t assume I’m the cause of his good mood? Very true; I’m not the be-all and end-all. He was in a good mood when he arrived, and that might be due to any one of a number of different factors that have nothing to do with me. I have my suspicions. However. When one is given a gift, the polite thing is to show gratitude, not dissect it. This is the best day I’ve had in a long time. I’m not going to spoil it for myself.

Oh, sorry, cat - I didn’t mean to jostle you. I was reaching for the book. Go back to sleep. I’ll sit here and read a while.


	26. Chapter 26

_The queen sent for the girl Jenova and told her to travel to an abandoned watchtower to the east of the city and bring hawthorn berries that grew there and were believed to have some magic power in them. When Jenova came to the tower, the witch put a sleeping spell on her and took her blood, and then they locked the girl in a room at the very top of the tower, because the spell was to be repeated every month until the child was sixteen years old, and every time the blood was required to perform it…_

_ “Tales of North” by Evan Marius _

So this is where Gast borrowed the name from! Jenova, the sleeping girl trapped in a frozen tower, her blood stolen by witches for their spells. I wonder what it looks like, Gast’s Jenova. Our Jenova. Tseng refused to describe it to me. All he said was that it doesn’t look entirely human. _Humanoid_ was the world he used. Aerith Gast, as far as I can remember, didn’t look _humanoid_. She was a perfectly ordinary little girl. It’s true that introducing Jenova’s attenuated DNA into human beings does strange things to their bodies, but wouldn’t sahagin DNA or dragon DNA or any foreign DNA have the same effect? Inserting DNA where nature never intended it to be… That’s Hojo’s department.

The sleep of reason produces monsters. Cat, you’re looking at me as if you know what I’m thinking. Human beings make life too complicated. We should content ourselves with full bellies and a warm patch of sunshine, shouldn’t we? Please accept my apologies for the lack of sunshine in this room.

Hojo took the survivors of the Nibelheim disaster for his experiments. Nobody stopped him. Veld was there and didn’t stop him. One Turk objected. Hojo shot him at point blank range. How dared he? How _dared_ he, Cat? When Veld made his report on Nibelheim to the Board I stood up and called for Hojo’s immediate censure and dismissal, and believe me, I was showing restraint. I would have liked to see him hung, drawn and quartered.

Dad laughed at me. “Calm down, you young hothead. The Professor followed the established protocol. All evidence of company malfeasance must be erased.”

Nibelheim was a watershed moment for me. As it was for many people, I imagine. Dad was shocked, absolutely rocked to his core. He couldn’t believe Sephiroth had turned against us, which only goes to show how out of touch he is. People who’d worked with Sephiroth on a regular basis had seen it coming for months. Years. Tseng said to me, “Why did we assume he would be willing to go on taking orders forever?” Sephiroth could have killed the entire Board with a single blow. And you know what the _really_ surprising thing is, Cat? He never tried. He never lifted a finger against my old man.

Tseng said many things to me right after Nibelheim that he probably shouldn’t have said. He blamed himself. Perhaps with some justification. He was in command of that mission. He should have been more decisive. Although… What difference would it have made? Once Sephiroth had made up his mind to go on a rampage, Tseng couldn’t have stopped him. The only sure way to prevent a Nibelheim was to refrain from creating a Sephiroth in the first place. At least he was the last of them. All three were a disaster.

Dad was shocked by Sephiroth’s betrayal of Shinra, but none of us were surprised to learn he had slaughtered an entire town. None of us were _surprised_, Cat. We knew what he was. Dad treated him like a tame guard hound. Danger? Sick ‘em, Sephiroth. Crisis averted? Back to your kennel, creature! We created this ticking time bomb, and then we allowed him to go out and about among ordinary innocent people. And when our exploding time bomb ripped through their lives, what did we do?

We decided to pretend it never happened.

It was all wrong. Wrong on every level. Wrong-headed. Morally wrong. The people of Nibelheim were good servants of this company. We owed them our loyalty and our help. We had a duty to restore, as far as possible, everything Sephiroth had damaged - so I did not, in that sense, have any objection to the proposed rebuilding of Nibelheim.

More than anything else, people desire an ordered and peaceful world in which to live and prosper. But at the same time, most people are ignorant, violent, and selfish, ruled by their greed and their fear. They don’t know how to create a peaceful world they long for. They need a government to impose peace on them. Dr Braska used to say: _The maintenance of law and order is the first duty of any government._ Which, for all practical purposes, is what we are. Yes, we have allowed local governments to remain in place and yes, we even let them hold elections, but when was the last time an election returned a candidate we didn’t like? Quite often there’s only one candidate. Ours. Elections are expensive. We cover all the costs. Our PR department takes care of the campaigning.

If your role in life is to give orders – no, scratch that. If your role in life to ensure that people follow the orders you give, you need to make yourself both feared and respected. That’s your moral obligation. Respect without fear is toothless. People rarely do things they don’t want to do out of mere respect. On the other hand, fear without respect soon turns to hatred, and once you’ve taught the people to hate you it won’t be long before they rise up against you. History has shown us this law in action over and over again. It’s a constant, it’s a rule of the physical universe, like pi or the speed of light. Maybe that’s why Dad hates history so much he’d like to rub it all out. The past keeps shoving these inconvenient truths in our faces.

The action we took in response to Nibelheim was neither necessary, nor moral, nor sensible. It had nothing to recommend it. It was completely bloody moronic. ‘Erasing’ a disaster of that magnitude simply isn’t possible. When I pointed this out, Heidegger said, “We did it in Banora”. I said you can’t compare the two, the entire population of Banora was dead or gone before we bombed it, and the reason we bombed it was to destroy Genesis’ clone factory. We didn’t try to rebuild it and then populate it with actors, that’s a ludicrous proposal.

Dad said, “It worked in Kalm.”

I said, “Are you not aware that what happened in Kalm is an open secret? At school, we all knew about it.”

“What?” he roared.

Did the fool actually believe it’s possible to hush up such a huge operation? How? Kill every last trooper and construction worker? Then you’ve got a second massacre on your hands. One cover up leads to another cover up leads to another cover up, every single one of them a sword hanging over our heads.

Dad said, “Sephiroth is the public face of this company. We can’t let the public lose faith in Shinra,” which is just about the most idiotic of all the stupid things he’s ever said.

I said, “If we own our mistakes, we own the truth. And if we own the truth, nobody can use it against us.”

The essential point about fear is that it’s honest. If you’re trying to instill a healthy fear in people, you can’t pretend that’s not what you’re doing. This is precisely why fear and respect are two sides of the same coin. Dad thinks he can keep the masses happy by lying to them. He wants them to believe Shinra is an entirely benevolent institution. But we’re not a church. The people _should _be afraid of us. His way - the lies and the cover-ups and the fake news - is short-term thinking. And who is going to be left holding this utter shitshow he’s created?

I hate him so much, Cat. Sometimes, I imagine the black tentacles of my hate burrowing their way up through the crevices and airshafts of this building to seek him out and choke him to death. I hate him for making me a party to that cover-up. I fought against it. I voted against it. For a while there I thought I was going to persuade Reeve round to my way of thinking, but in the end, when we took the vote, mine was the only dissenting voice. The Board are a bunch of cowards.

I insisted Wendy write down everything I said word for word. Recording my objections for posterity’s sake. But in the end, it doesn’t matter. Nibelheim was Shinra’s doing. One day it’ll all come out, and I’ll be held accountable. My name’s on that order. This poisoned chalice is my father’s legacy to me.

And yet _still_ Tseng doesn’t see the urgent necessity of removing him.

I had the tiniest window of opportunity for venting about Nibelheim to Tseng, and then he clammed up on me. “The decision has been taken,” he said. “What’s done is done.” How could he accept it so calmly? Veld’s training, of course. That stoicism is bred in the bone.

I couldn’t accept it. I couldn’t.

When Alex was home for half-term, I tried unburdening myself to him. Not the specifics, of course - I would never have put Alex in danger of knowing more than was good for him - but my general sentiments about old man becoming a hazard to himself and others. He knew how I felt about Dad; we’d been discussing our parents for years. This time, though, it was as if the subject bored him. “We all hate our parents, Rufe. It’s what the cool kids do.”

“You don’t hate your mum and dad.”

“They wouldn’t notice if I did. They’re too busy hating each other.”

I went down to Junon, hoping to put some distance between myself and the stupidities of the boardroom. It didn’t work. Armiger could see my mind was preoccupied and distressed. I couldn’t concentrate on my work. Small irritations provoked disproportionate outbursts of anger: a broken pencil lead, a misplaced file. Dark Nation picked up on my mood and prowled restlessly, tentacle twitching.

“You’re all mardy,” said Armiger at last. “Something’s wrong. What is it?”

“Nothing,” I said in that tone which means _so much is wrong I don’t even know where to begin. _

She lowered her reading glasses to look at me. They were half-moon in shape, studded with rhinestones. “It doesn’t seem like nothing. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?”

I wanted nothing more than to talk about it. I was bursting with outrage. “Everybody thinks my father is such a great man, such a towering genius. He’s a consummate idiot.”

“What’s he done now, Vice-President?”

“I can’t tell you. I would if I could but I can’t. It’s better if you don’t know. If this, what we’re doing here, if it fails, if we’re found out, I’ll survive, probably. I’m the only son he has left. But you - “

“I’m alive to my situation, believe you me.”

I shouldn’t have said anything more, Cat. I’d told her the essential problem. I should have left it at that. Instead, I went blundering selfishly on: “When I started this, it was merely personal. He’d hurt me, and I wanted to hit back in a way he would really feel. I wanted to show him he doesn’t have all the power. But he does. He has all the power. And all he does with it is destroy things. The hole he’s going to drop me into gets deeper by the day. It isn’t personal any more. He has to go before he does any more damage.”

“What damage, Vice-President?”

“This latest disaster. If Fuhito had kept his word to me it need never have happened. My old man needs to be stopped before he destroys the company.”

She looked confused. “But don’t you want to destroy the company?”

“No! I want him dead. He ought to be dead by now – “

I shut my mouth, because she’d gone white.

I’d forgotten she didn’t know. No, I hadn’t forgotten. But in that moment, carried away by my anger against my old man, I didn’t care.

“Sorry,” I said, stupidly.

Armiger was staring at me. “What did Fuhito promise you?”

“Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. Are you – are you trying to kill your_ father_? Is that the real deal here? Is that why you’re paying Fuhito? Because he promised he’d kill your _father_? You’ve involved me in a plot to kill your _father_?”

Having wrong-footed myself, I did what I always do to cover up a blunder: act the sullen child. “Well, what did you think?”

“What did I _think_? Not that. Shiva’s tits, who would think that? He’s your _father_.”

She kept stressing that word, as if it meant something. “So?” I retorted. “What do you care?”

“I never dreamed… I thought this was a game to you.”

“A game?”

“A lesson. For your father. To show him he can’t control you.”

“The stakes are higher now.”

She looked so shocked. Appalled. And angry. I suppose I can’t blame her. We were stage-whispering at each other, conscious that the office wasn’t sound-proof and her secretary and my Turk were only a wall away. She said, “Avalanche is never going to bring Shinra down. Fuhito, he’s – he’s a rat, a little rat nibbling at the dragon’s tail. You’re a clever boy; I thought you knew this. You _do_ know it, don’t you? It’s safe for you to support a minor irritant. You wouldn’t sponsor a real threat.”

“My old man is the real threat. He - “

Abruptly she stood up. “Don’t say another word. You’ve said too much already. I don’t want to know. I didn’t sign up for this.”

She put on her coat and walked out.

Almost immediately her secretary put his head round the door. “All right, Mr Rufus?”

Dark Nation snarled at him. He swiftly backed away, closing the door behind him.

I wanted to run after her, but I couldn’t. Out in the streets of Junon I’d have been recognised and mobbed for autographs before I’d gone three steps. I didn’t dare ask the Turk to go after her either. All I could do was sit and wait.

I fucking _hate_ waiting, Cat. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve spent my entire life doing nothing but wait.

The secretary brought me lunch. I couldn’t eat it. After lunch, Armiger came back. She still looked pale, but much calmer. “Where have you been?” I demanded.

“Walking. Thinking.” She hung up her coat.

“I was afraid you weren’t coming back.”

She gave me a look that made me feel about six inches tall. “I sincerely doubt that, Vice-President. You know I can’t leave. Once you’re in, you can’t get out. That slimy toad Fuhito! I’d like to wring his neck.”

“You’re angry with me. I don’t blame you. I’m truly sorry – “

“Sorry doesn’t begin to cover it. You’ve got me mixed up in a conspiracy against the President’s life. I’m an accessory now.”

Personally, I don’t see much practical difference between a conspiracy to bring down Shinra, Inc and a conspiracy to kill its president, but it was clear she felt the distinction keenly, and the last thing I wanted was to antagonize her further by arguing with her. “I’m truly very sorry. I never meant – “

“And my daughter. Her life is in danger too. I only got into this for her sake. If I’d known…”

Flourish’s life was in danger because her mother had elected to become an accountant for terrorists, not because of anything I’d done. Armiger had come to me through Fuhito; he’d recruited her, not me. I’d hired her because they both, Armiger and Fuhito, wanted me to. But now was the not the time to be reminding her of this.

“You need to understand something,” she told me. “Whatever it takes to protect my daughter, I’ll do it. No matter what.” She paused, to give her next words more weight. “Just like your father would do whatever it takes to protect you. Because you’re his _child_.”

“You don’t understand. It’s not the same. He’s not like you.” 

We’re not all lucky enough to be Flourish Armiger.

Armiger sat back down at her desk, folded her hands, looked at me sternly. “Vice-President, do you value my advice? Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“I trust you implicitly, Armiger.”

I could see in her eyes that she didn’t believe me. That hurt me more than anything, Cat. Obviously her trust in me had been dented, but what had I ever done to suggest that I didn’t trust _her_? 

She said, “Let me give you a piece of my mind. This – this terrible scheme of yours – give it over. Please. For your own good. Killing your own father, shedding your own blood… It’s one of the worst crimes a body can commit. It’s a _cursed_ crime, Vice-President. If a son lays hands on his father, it’s his own life he’d be ruining. And your life hasn’t hardly even started yet. How could you live the rest of your life with your father’s blood on your hands? Your entire future would be stained with the guilt.”

Worth it, though, to _have _a future. Freedom isn’t cheap. I didn’t say that to Armiger, of course. I _burned _to justify myself to her, to have her hear me out, to dump the full Nibelheim catastrophe on her so she would understand I was only doing what I had to do. And not just for my sake. For everyone’s.

But I hesitated too long, and she spoke first. “At least promise me you’ll think on it.”

Did she imagine I ever thought about anything else? It was consuming my existence. I said, “All right.”

“You have to promise.”

“I promise to think about it, Armiger.”

She nodded briskly. “Good. Then there’s nothing more to be said. Unless and until it’s to tell me you’ve changed your mind.”

Armiger drives a hard bargain. I was afraid she’d quit and leave. I spent the whole of the following week trying to figure out how to persuade her to stick with me. Mercedes and I were estranged; Fuhito had seen to that. Pia had never been my friend. My childhood friends and I had drifted apart, and in any case I couldn’t discuss what went on in the boardroom with them. The same went for Aunt Pansy. And as for Tseng - and the rest of the Turks - I’d been concealing my thoughts and deeds from them for so long it had become second nature.

Armiger was my sole outlet, the one person I could talk to honestly and freely, the only human being who knew what was really going on in my life.

The fact is, she could have left if she’d really wanted to. Fuhito would have tried to punish her, but she has powerful friends, the same ones who are probably hiding her now. Escaping from Avalanche would have meant turning Flourish’s life upside-down: taking her out of school, going underground, living in the shadows. Armiger didn’t want that kind of life for her daughter; that’s why she chose not to leave.

But also, in part, at least, she stayed for me. I think.

Friday came round and I went down to Junon and I told her I’d thought it over. “I still think my old man needs to go,” I said. “There are reasons. I can’t tell you what they are, and you wouldn’t want to know. However, I concede that trying to use Avalanche against him was a mistake. There are other, better ways. What I – what I planned would have harmed me as much as it harmed him. I let my anger get the better of me. That was stupid.”

“Is this you telling me you’ve changed your mind?” 

“I prefer to call it adjusting my expectations.”

She smiled. She believed me. I’m pretty sure she believed me. She acted like she believed me. At any rate, she didn’t abandon me.

Cat, you have a purr like a Hardy-Daytona. Far too big for such a little thing. Come lie on my chest and rumble against my heart. You sound happy, but I could be reading too much into it. Don’t cats also purr to comfort themselves when they’re lonely? And heal themselves when they’re wounded? You must be nature’s favoured child, to have been gifted with this self-healing mechanism. We poor benighted humans have to rely on crystallised mako.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rufus's favourite childhood book of fairy-tales, 'The Tales of North' by Evan Marius, are actually the work of fanfic author Ixieko and posted on this site. You can find the Jenova story here:  
https://archiveofourown.org/works/5623465  
And the complete FFVII Folk Tales series here:  
https://archiveofourown.org/series/380941


	27. Chapter 27

Nibelheim was a disaster for the people on the ground and for the company - but for me, it opened a door. Before the Nibelheim incident, I, the boy, the Little Prez, had been the sole voice of opposition on the Board. Afterwards, Reeve began openly to support some of my ideas. He felt ashamed of the spinelessness he’d shown over Nibelheim. That’s what I think, Cat.

Heidegger too began leaning towards me. The Field Marshall can’t always have been such a fraidy-cat, if you’ll pardon my language. The breast of his great-coat is covered with medals, some of which he must have earned.

They’d forgotten who they were. They needed me to remind them.

Scarlet, on the other hand, grew more entrenched in her opposition to me. She’s not as clever as I used to think she was. She thought that by slapping me down she’d ingratiate herself with Dad, but he sees too much of himself in me for it to be that simple.

I was beginning to feel hopeful. I thought that perhaps the boardroom could be my arena after all. Maybe Armiger really was right and Dad didn’t need to die in order to be defeated. I could cut my ties with Fuhito, who had done nothing but fail me, and take the fight to Dad on his own turf. Although cutting my ties to Fuhito might be easier said than done. I hadn’t forgotten the biologist’s riddle.

The Winterfest holidays began and Alex came round. He told me he’d finally made up his mind to drop out of Penscombe. “Why now?” I said, “When leaving exams are just two terms away?” He gestured round my expansive marble mausoleum and said, “But who needs that hassle, eh?” I couldn’t tell if he was having a dig at me or not.

He asked if I was still interested in starting up a literary magazine. I said, “You’re here for my money?”

He laughed at me. “You swaggity ponce. I have my own trust fund, thank you very much. It may be a mere muu-hill to your mountain, but it’ll suffice. No, I want you to edit it with me. I’d like to bring Mercedes in too. She’s still failing all her other subjects, but she’s a really good graphic designer now.”

Literary journals are notorious for losing money. I was thinking that if my investment company involved itself with the finances of Alex’s magazine, we could pour a fortune into that black hole before anybody started wondering where the money was going. Alex wouldn’t notice; maths was never his strong suit. It would be even better than the art scam. I was also thinking how great it would be to spend time with Alex again, and how I hadn’t seen Mercedes in ages.

Alex’s mind was running along the same track. “You two were inseparable for a while back then. What happened? I’ve always wondered.”

“Nothing significant. It… fizzled out.”

“Did you ever, you know - “ he made a gesture with his fingers that meant _fuck her_?

And Cat, I’m sorry to say I leaned back in my big leather executive chair and laughed inauthentically and gave him to understand that I had. I suppose it wasn’t a total lie. No. It was a lie, wasn’t it?

He rolled a joint and we took turns passing it back and forth. He told me the hostility between his parents had escalated to the point where he felt trapped in a no-man’s land between his mum and his dad, trying to stay neutral and maintain diplomatic relations with both. He couldn’t understand why one of them didn’t move out. They couldn’t possibly _enjoy_ fighting with each other, could they?

“Maybe neither of them wants to yield ground to the other.” I was trying to be a good listener, giving responses that showed I’d heard what he said.

“Well, whatever, I’m not sticking around to be a casualty. As soon as I find some half-decent digs, I’m out of there. Rufe… How about you and me going halves on a flat? Would you be interested?”

The last time we’d shared living quarters, I’d ended up hurting him. Was he suggesting a repeat performance? Hoping for a different outcome? No - he’d mentioned Mercedes on purpose. _I understand the situation, Rufe. We’d be living together as just-friends._

I said, “Dad would never let me.”

“You’re eighteen, nearly. How long are you going to let your father make all your decisions for you?”

Cat, I was trying to protect him. I would never be allowed to live with an openly gay man. That was nowhere even remotely within the realms of possibility. Dad just about tolerated our friendship, but only because we’d been friends all our lives and his parents were in our circle, and because we were no longer as close as we used to be, which according to Dad was A Good Thing. _You don’t want to be associated with that sort, son. He always was a limp-wristed sissy boy. I feel sorry for his poor parents. _

Alex had grown up around rational people. He knew what Dad’s like, but he didn’t really understand. No one can understand unless they’ve lived it for themselves. So I said, “Do you honestly want to share your living space with my security detail? Turks clogging up the bathroom and hogging the remote control? Not to mention they all smoke like chimneys.”

“It could work. I wouldn’t mind a crack at Two-Guns. He’s damn hot, if I recall correctly.”

“Oh, I see. You’re not after my money, you’re after my bodyguards.”

The sound of his laugh was like the sound of your purr, Cat. He said, “I always liked Reno. He was so cool. Man, it feels like ages since I’ve seen those guys.”

“What about Cyrus Baine? Would he be a fixture?”

“Ah, that’s over. Anyway, it was just a summer fling.” He started rolling a fresh joint, although we hadn’t yet finished with the old one.

“How many of those do you get through a day, Alex?”

“Honestly, too many. It’s because I’m bored. I feel I’m drifting. Once we launch this magazine I won’t want to get toasted all the time. I just need something constructive in my life.”

Soon after, I had to leave to go to a Finance Department lunch meeting. A week passed without sight or sound of him. I tried calling, but he wasn’t answering his phone. I even called Mercedes to tell her I was worried about Alex, and she said, “It’s a bit late for that, don’t you think?” and put the phone down on me. When I tried to think of who else I could call, I realised I had no one. Johnny Casarini was the last sane friend I had left, and he was away on SOLDIER basic training. It never even crossed my mind to call Alex’s parents. I did think of going to Tseng and saying, “Could you please find Alex for me?” but I didn’t think Alex would thank me for setting my Turks on him. I wish I had, now.

I didn’t see him again until the night of my cousin Gus Lomo’s twenty-fifth birthday party. I was going on somewhere else, so I arrived at the party early. Alex was in the music room and he was already wasted. I don’t know what he’d taken. He was too pumped for it to be just weed, too chill for it to be just hyper. He was drinking rum and colas. Draped over one of the Lomo’s gilded chaise-longues, he cat-called every pretty boy who walked past, inviting them to come suck him off. People were giving him a wide berth.

“No one wants a taste of me,” he pouted. “You know who I blame? I blame you, Rufe. Don’t sit so close to me, you’re making me look ugly.”

My cousin Gus appeared. “Alex, you’re making a show of yourself. Go home.”

“He can’t go home,” I said.

“Take him to your place, then.”

“I have to go to the Constellation. We have a seasonal dinner with the branch office directors, I can’t miss it.”

Alex started singing, “Nobody likes me, everybody hates me…”

“Let’s move him, at least,” said Gus. 

We tried to get Alex to stand up, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He must have been half-wrecked before the party began. My Turk - it was Rude – put Alex over his shoulder. Gus led the way up several flights of stairs into one of the back bedrooms, where it was quiet. Rude dropped Alex onto the bed. He instantly fell asleep. “He’ll be all right,” said Gus, “Once he’s slept it off.”

“Wait,” said Rude. He turned Alex on his side, tucked a pillow behind his back.

I said to Gus, “Get someone to keep an eye on him. I’ll come back for him when my dinner’s finished.”

I should have missed the dinner. Gus didn’t get anyone to keep an eye on him. While I was sitting at the Constellation making inane small talk and eating I don’t even remember what, Alex was drowning in his own spew in the darkness of the back bedroom where I’d left him. We were being served dessert when I got the call.

“Who’s that?” Dad bellowed from across the table. “One of your girlfriends?”

I got up and left the table.

Rude followed me. “What’s wrong, V.P.?”

“Alex is dead.”

“Your friend Alex?”

“You need to take me there now. Or I’ll go on my own.”

“Wait - “ he went back to the table, bent to whisper in my father’s ear. Dad looked at me. I don’t know what I expected, Cat. No, I do know. I wanted him to come with me. I wanted him to put his arms around me and tell me he was sorry. Most of all, I wanted him to tell me there had been a mistake, or to turn back the clock, undo what was done. He had that power; I felt he had that power. I wanted him to _help_ me.

Dad nodded and Rude returned to me. “Let’s go.”

Gus’ people had cleaned Alex’s face and covered him with a blanket. Dead people don’t look as if they’re sleeping, Cat. He was gone. People go so far so fast when they die, it makes no difference whether you arrive a minute later or a lifetime later, you’re too late either way.

I didn’t want to meet his parents, so I told Rude to take me home.

He must have turned over in his sleep. Rolled onto his back. The pillow Rude had used to hold him in place was found on the floor. If I’d stayed with him instead of going to that dinner, I would have stopped him from rolling. And if he’d choked anyway, Rude would have known what to do. But that’s not what happened. What happened is that he died, in the dark, alone.

Tseng took me to the funeral. I didn’t cry. His parents invited me to say something. I refused. My memories of Alex are private, they’re mine and his, no one else’s. I didn’t want to imagine his parents’ grief. He was their only child. His mother told the story of why they named him Alexander. They’d been wanting and hoping for a child for so long than when he finally arrived it was as if their will had summoned him into being. But what I think, Cat, is that they didn’t cherish him enough. I wanted to be angry with them for making his last months so unhappy, but somehow I couldn’t feel rage either. Tseng kept his hand resting on my shoulder all the way through the service. It felt good. It was confusing. I kept wishing he would hold me, but if he’d tried, I think I would have shoved him away. Tseng doesn’t hug people. 

Johnny hadn’t been able to make it - the SOLDIER treatments run to a strict schedule - but his mother and siblings were there. As Tseng and I were leaving, she came after me - she _ran_ after me, trailing her children behind her. “Rufus Shinra! Give me back my son!”

_Give me back my son._ If only I could.

I tried to reason with her. “Mrs Casarini, Johnny chose to join SOLDIER. It’s what he wants.”

“He’s thrown his life away. Give him back to me. Give him back.”

I thought she was going to hit me. Tseng thought so too. His hand slipped inside his jacket while he moved to put himself between Johnny’s mother and me. “Oh, that’s right,” she cried, “Shoot me. Why not? You’ve already taken my baby.”

Her other children had caught up and were trying to calm her down. “Don’t make a scene, mummy, please.”

Tseng hurried me away. Once we were in the car he said, “All right, Rufus?”

“Yes,” I said, “I’m fine.”

I wasn’t fine, Cat.

Tseng didn’t say anything else, but he was there. He was just - there. I closed my eyes, and after a while I leaned my head on his arm, and he let me rest against him. It was sweet. It was terrible. I was so ashamed. How could I feel happy, when Alex was dead?

I hadn’t shed a tear. I felt ashamed of that too. What was wrong with me, that I couldn’t cry even for Alex? But when I went down to Junon that Friday, Armiger brought me a cup of tea and said, “I heard about Alex Leigh, Vice-President. Such a terrible loss. I’m very sorry,” and her words somehow unlocked what I was keeping shut away.

Why was I able to cry in front of Armiger, but not with Tseng, or Rude, or our friends who came to the funeral, most of whom sobbed all the way through? I think the answer is simple, Cat. I think it’s because I needed a mother. She wasn’t mine and she didn’t want to be, but a mother is a mother. She didn’t make a fuss about it. She put her arms around me and let me weep.

Dark Nation howled along with me. Armiger wasn’t fazed. My Turk, hearing the sounds I was making, came in. Armiger waved her away. I cried until I threw up. She held her wastepaper bin while I vomited into it, and when I’d finally retched up every last shred of bile and dignity, she calmly disposed of the contents, cleaned my face with a damp cloth and brought me a glass of water. “Alex Leigh was the friend you couldn’t help, wasn’t he?” she said.

I nodded.

“You poor boy,” she said, rubbing my back. She sounded as if she really meant it.

That’s the first time anybody has ever called me a ‘poor boy’, Cat. And very likely the last.

The next blow fell on a Tuesday afternoon in mid-January. I was getting ready to take Dark Nation for her twice-weekly run in the Healen foothills. My security detail had been mustered and the helicopter was standing by, when Dad called an emergency board meeting and I had to drop everything and go. I was one of the last to arrive. Walking in, I found a party going on: Wendy passing round flutes of champagne to everyone who worked on the executive floor, Dad popping the cork of a fresh bottle. Reeve met me at the door, smiling from ear to ear. “Isn’t it fabulous news?”

“What is?”

“You haven’t heard? Then allow me to be the bearer of glad tidings! Avalanche are finished! Blown up! Terminated! Completely destroyed!”

I think that, because of what happened to Alex, I was in what could be described as a fog of numbness, which cushioned me against this blow, so that it didn’t hit me as hard as it would otherwise have done. Or you could say I was still drunk with grief and couldn’t feel anything properly. Everything seemed so far removed from me. My expression barely changed. I said, “What?”

“I know!” Reeve cried. “It’s hard to believe, isn’t it? But it’s true. Their leadership’s been wiped out. Wendy, over here. Rufus needs a glass of champers.”

Veld came in. “A toast to the man of the hour!” Dad cried.

We all sat down. Veld delivered his detailed verbal report. The operation had been top secret; the only people in the know had been Dad, Tseng, Veld himself, and Charlie the Legendary Turk, the man responsible for infiltrating Avalanche’s operations in Wutai and blowing up the headquarters that I, at great expense and with great ingenuity, had paid for. Somehow the Legend had convinced Fuhito that he was willing to turn against Shinra. Apparently he told Fuhito that he’d been alienated by Veld’s failure to promote him (though Fuhito knew the Legend ran the Junon office) and was willing to sell information if the price was right.

I suppose it wasn’t a completely implausible story. The Legendary Turk has changed sides quite a few times in his long and chequered career. He started off working for a gun-runner, then came to Shinra, then went over to Wutai, then back to Shinra. Maybe Fuhito was convinced by his tall tale, I don’t know. The point is, Cat, Fuhito made the decision to bring the Legend on board without consulting me. Me, his so-called partner. He hired a self-proclaimed ex-Turk and didn’t think it worth the trouble to let me know. What an idiot! I could have told him there’s no such thing as an ex-Turk. I could have told him the Legend’s loyalty to Veld is unbreakable. The sheer arrogant stupidity of Fuhito’s actions was something I could scarcely wrap my head around. I was almost more astonished by his folly than I was angry at him for keeping me in the dark.

Dad said to Veld, “Promise me the Big Three are dead. That’s all I want to hear.”

“They were inside their HQ when the Legend blew it up. They couldn’t possibly have survived.”

I didn’t doubt for a minute that they were dead. Fuhito deserved to be dead. He should never have trusted the Legend. Idiot. Moron. I was furious. And I was frightened, Cat. My carefully-laid, extremely expensive plans had been blown to smithereens. I had no idea what would happen next, or how much trouble I was in. If any of the Avalanche operatives had been taken for questioning… If my name came out, I was done for.

And yet… Out of the many conflicting emotions roiling in my gut while I sat there listening to Veld’s report, the strongest of all was relief.

_That’s it then_, I thought. _It’s over._

As soon as I could get away, I went to my office and called Armiger. “Have you heard?”

“Yes, Vice-President.” Crackle crackle on the line. “Spectacular news.”

“Spectacular?”

“The best news I could have hoped for. The world’s a safer place. Now we don’t need to worry about anything. It’s all good.”

“Is it?”

“This wonderful news will inject confidence into the market. We’ll take a hit in Wutai but that should be offset by gains elsewhere. Especially in the leisure industries. I predict a five per cent rise across the board, minimum. We can all sleep easier tonight, Mr Vice-President. Isn’t that the most fantastic feeling? Please offer the President my congratulations. Will I see you this week? Friday, nine am, as usual?”

“I think so.”

“We’ll celebrate then.” She said good-bye and hung up.

I thought I understood her code. _We’re safe. The loss is confined to Wutai. Don’t worry about anything. It’s all good._

If Armiger wasn’t worried, then I too would hold my nerve. I had faith in her.

I picked up the phone again to call Pia. I dialled her home number first. The maid told me Mr and Mrs Gandara had left to take Mercedes back to school two days earlier, and hadn't returned. I tried Pia's PHS. When she heard my voice, she burst into tears. I tried to use our code; I said something like, _I heard our friend was injured pigeon-shooting this weekend. _And she shouted at me, “Was it you? Did you betray us?”

I had to cut the call.

That’s a big yawn, Cat. Yes, have a good stretch. Look how long you are! You could be made of elastic. You never show your claws to me. I think you must like me. Ouch, get off my spleen. Are you an adamantoise? Tread more lightly. I don’t wish to admire your arsehole, thank you very much. Sit down and have a wash. That’s better.

Did you think Armiger was talking to me in code when she said _it’s all good, no need to worry_? I thought so too, Cat. Since any deviation from my normal routine might have attracted unwanted attention, I flew down to Junon that Friday as normal, more than half-expecting to find the office abandoned. But there was Armiger behind her desk as usual. Her mood was jubilant. “I’m that happy, I could jump over the moon. We’re free, Vice-President! At last!”

She went on, “I’ve been at my wit’s end trying to find a way out for us. This was always going to end badly. Didn’t I tell you Avalanche can’t win against Shinra? I thank our lucky stars we’ve got out of it with our virtue intact, if you know what I mean. This mistake could have robbed you of your future, Vice-President. You see now what a mistake it was, don’t you?”

With the benefit of hindsight, from my current position here in my prison cell? Yes and no. My mistake was to trust Fuhito. No, that’s not right. I never trusted him. I believed he would keep his side of the bargain because it was obviously in his own interests to do so. I didn’t realise he was a deranged psychopath until it was too late. _That_ was my mistake. I misjudged him.

She said excitedly, “We can go legit now. Oh, Vice-President, we are going to make so much money, your old man’s head will spin right off his shoulders! We’ll show him who’s the genius in the family. You’re going to make a cracking President when your turn comes. Holy Hades,” she laughed, “Would you listen to me? What a turnaround! When we first met, I couldn’t have imagined I’d ever have a good word to say about you.”

“Don’t smother me in flattery, Armiger.”

“No, no, it’s true. Remember me telling you not to judge a book by its cover? The first time I clapped eyes on you, I thought, ‘here’s a spoiled little princeling.’ You didn’t look like you even knew you’d been born. But there’s more to you than I had eyes to see, and I don’t mind admitting it. You’re sharp. You work hard. You set yourself high standards. And you’ve got some moral stuffing to you, which I really didn’t expect. I’d have hated all that potential to be wasted.”

Dear Armiger, such a balm to my ego.

I said, “Are you absolutely certain there’s no way anything can be traced back to us?”

“I’m sure as sure can be. I’ve been meticulous. I know my business, Vice-President.”

“I know you do. What about Pia Gandara and her organisation, are they in the clear?”

“I’ve heard nothing. But we’re safe on that side too, don’t worry.”

“I’m worried about Pia and Mercedes. I think they might have gone on the run.”

Armiger looked me in the eye and said, “Vice-President, you should hope they disappear and are never heard from again. There’s nothing you can do for them. In this situation, it’s every man for himself.”

Her words preyed on my mind all the way back to Midgar. Veld was waiting for me on the tarmac, and as soon as I saw him I knew my worst fears had been realised. He asked me to walk with him to his office. Was he going to arrest me there? All I could think of was wishing I could warn Armiger. She would advise me to stay calm. Luckily for me, Cat, hiding my turmoil under a veneer of indifference is something at which I’ve had plenty of practice.

When we reached his office he told me to sit down. “I have some bad news for you, Rufus. It’s about your friends, the Gandara sisters. There’s been an accident. A fatal accident. I’m sorry.”

My whole being froze. My mind, my body. I couldn’t think, couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even take my eyes off him. I just stared.

He said, “I know this must come as a terrible shock to you.”

“Mercedes is dead?”

“Her sister too. I’m sorry.”

“Mercedes? And Pia? They’re dead?”

“I’m afraid it was the whole family.”

“You mean they’re all dead?” My mind was beginning to move again. In another moment, it would start whirling. “How?”

“A fire broke out on their yacht. It happened last night, off the Condor coast. The coast guard was called out but there was nothing they could do. The yacht exploded. Everyone on board was killed.”

My instinct for self-preservation, which had been momentarily stunned, raised its head and hissed at me, _Act natural._

But what was natural in a situation like this? What had I done when Gus told me Alex was dead? Closed my phone, left the table, stared across the room at Dad. I rose from the chair Veld had put me in and walked to the window. Then I turned, and did my best to use the same stare with him.

Hang on, someone’s at the door. It’s opening. What is that thing? A very large cardboard box on a large dolly cart with a squeaky wheel, pushed by… Reno, an unlit cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He knows he’s not allowed to smoke in here.

He doesn’t glance my way. Not a word, not a look, no acknowledgement that I exist. And yet he’s brought that box for me. The picture on its side tells me it contains a treadmill. At last, some exercise.

He’s parking the dolly in the corner, taking a stanley knife from his trouser pocket, and though he’d rather be using it to slit my throat, he merely cuts open the tape sealing the box lid. He produces other tools - a moveable spanner, a screwdriver set, pliers, an allen key - and sets to work laying all the pieces of the treadmill out across the floor. How methodical of him. Like his piloting. That slovenly appearance is merely an affectation.

He’s never laid a finger on me. Why? Is it because he was the one who stepped in to stop Tseng from beating me to death? Another small mercy; perhaps he regrets it now. Tseng wouldn’t have been able to stop on his own. Perhaps Reno’s afraid that if he started hitting me, he, too, would lose all self-control. So he makes do with spitting in my food whenever it’s his turn to bring my meal tray. At least he doesn’t stir it in. He wants me to get the message. I eat around it.

Where was I? Veld.

Yes. Of course, what I know now, but didn’t know then, was that by this point he already knew about my involvement with Avalanche. Either Pia or Mercedes or both of them must have spilled my name before they died. While he was sitting at his desk spinning me this cock and bull story about a tragic yachting disaster, he knew I’d been funnelling money to Avalanche, but I didn’t know that he knew, and he knew I didn’t know. So there was I, doing my best to act innocent and natural, and opposite me was that old bastard, secretly amusing himself watching my performance.

All I knew was that the yacht explosion was no accident. I was standing at the window thinking to myself, _what do I do now? What do I say?_ Veld’s story was full of holes. If I was too quick to take it at face value, I’d make myself look either stupid or guilty, and Veld knew I wasn’t stupid.

I said, “It’s January. What were they doing on their yacht in January?”

Veld’s face grew thoughtful, as if he, too, would like to know the answer. “June Gandara hasn’t been well lately. Maybe they wanted to take her somewhere warm?”

“Why wasn’t Mercedes in school? They only went back last week. She should have been in school.”

“This must be terrible for you, Rufus. I’m sorry.”

And you know something, Cat? I think he probably was sorry. _What a shame it had to be this way. They seemed like nice girls._

I said, “It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Accidents never do.”

“Was it an accident?”

The old fox didn’t even blink. “What do you mean?”

“It’s your style, isn’t it?”

“My style?”

“Four days ago you took down Avalanche and now the entire Gandara family are dead. That seems like rather too much of a coincidence to me. And you know what Tseng says.”

“What does Tseng say?”

“He doesn’t believe in coincidences.”

Veld gave me one of his indulgent paternal smiles. My blustering charade must have been very entertaining for him. He must have been struggling not to laugh. He said, “Do you know something I don’t know, Rufus?”

“I’m saying it looks suspicious. I think maybe you know something you’re not telling me. Were the Gandaras associated with Avalanche? If you know something, you had better tell me. I have a right to know. I’ve donated a considerable amount of money to Pia’s foundation, and Mercedes and I used to be close. If my friendship with them has compromised me in some way, and I find out you’ve been keeping it from me, I won’t be best pleased, Commander.”

Cat, I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me right there and then that I’d been busted. It would have given him a hold over me. A stranglehold, to be precise. I mean, yes, Avalanche had apparently been neutralised and yes, the people who could have exposed me had been removed. Except Armiger. But she’s an eel. They couldn’t get a grip on her. When I went down to see her the following week she told me the Legend had paid her a visit, leaned on her pretty heavily, and asked some searching questions. “Men like him don’t scare me,” she said. “I know his type.” She evidently gave satisfactory answers, because they left her alone after that. Or else her gangland connections protected her. Don Corneo had her husband sorted for knocking her about. Maybe Veld didn’t want to start a war with the underworld over her? Those are the only two explanations I can think of.

“Are you talking to that cat, V.P.?”

Bloody hell! I just jumped three inches. Damn Reno. Why is he speaking to me anyway? What does he want? Stay on your guard, Rufus. Say nothing.

“That’s our cat. What’s it doing in here?”

If Reno wants to claim my cat, I’m not going to fight him. It doesn’t matter if Reno takes my cat away, because my cat will come straight back the moment he gets a chance. My cat will decide for himself where he belongs, whatever Reno says.

Reno’s heading towards me. He smells of tobacco and gun oil and smouldering electrical sockets. Does he really mean to take my cat?

My cat is wary. He’s keeping his eyes fixed on Reno. The tip of his tail twitches. He knows what Reno intends and he doesn’t like it. Why would he, when he’s so warm and comfortable here with me? 

He stretches out his two front legs and flexes his paws and shows all his claws, as casually as a Turk might let their jacket hang open for a moment to give the enemy a glimpse of the gun inside.

No wonder Reno calls it _their_ cat.

Reno’s backing off. “Nah, you can keep the little shit. I don’t care. One backstabber deserves another.”

He’s packing up his tools now. Folding the empty box and laying it on the dolly; pushing the dolly to the door, opening it. The treadmill is working, and my cat doesn’t seem to dislike the noise. As soon as Reno’s gone, I’ll take myself for a run. If I close my eyes, I can imagine I’m running around the grounds at Penscombe, or Aunt Pansy’s grasslands farm -

Why has he left the dolly in the door and come back? Why is he look at me that way? As if he’s… _sorry_ for me? I’m not falling for that.

“Listen - V.P. - “

Why is he hesitating?

“Tseng didn’t want us to tell you this, but I reckon you got a right to know. It’s about your hound. Dark Nation.”

No. I’m not taking this bait. Don’t even look at him, Rufus,.

“The thing is, right, you’re the only one who can really control her. If you’d been there, it probably wouldn’t have happened.”

Don’t ask. Don’t ask.

“So, she, uh…. She went berserk. Nobody knows why. Your aunt’s vet thought she mebbe ate some loco weed. She attacked some of your aunt’s birds. Killed one of them, and a couple of the others, they’ll never race again. It’s the knacker’s yard for them - “

None of this is true. It’s not true.

“ - And one of the stable guys tried to get her under control and she blasted him. Fifty per cent burns. We dunno yet if he’s going to live. Still waiting on that. Anyway. Shit. Look, there’s no easy way to say this. They had to put her down, V.P.”

No. No, no, no, no -

“She wasn’t a bad hound. Not really. It’s just, you know, she was out of control, and once they turn vicious…”

No. It’s not true. He’s lying.

“Anyway. Yeah. That’s - yeah. Sorry.”

The slap of his feet on the floor, the squeak of the trolley, the swish of the door.

He’s gone.

Oh god. My heart. It’s pounding.

Wrong! Stupid! Pull yourself together, Rufus! Don’t give him what he wants. None of it is true. He’s lying. This is his pathetic attempt at psychological torture. Dark Nation isn’t dead. Aunt Pansy would never allow it. She wouldn’t let anyone hurt my girl. Reno confabulated all that detail to torment me. It can’t be true. He’s lying. He’s lying. He’s lying.


	28. Chapter 28

I wish I knew what the time was. Day? Night? I wish I knew. Why the _fuck_ won’t they give me a clock? To torment me? Do they _want_ to drive me crazy, is that what Tseng wants? To drive me out of my mind? All they do is torment me. Torturing me in this eternal _now_. Time has stopped. It’s not linear any more, it’s circular; past, present, future, _my_ past, _my _present,_ my _future, circling me, staring at me, accusingly. No. Curiously. _Look at him_. _Look at what he’s been reduced to. So handsome, so clever, so rich. Who could have foreseen it? What a sorry sight. He did it to himself – _

Fuck. Fuck. I need to get my head straight. Haven’t slept. How many hours now? Fucking Reno.

Do I deserve it? _Do_ I?

At least they can’t watch me. I closed the curtains on their prying eyes. Hah!

You need to calm down, Rufus. Look at the state you’re in. You should stop pacing the room, it doesn’t help. Legs like boiled noodles after all those hours running on the treadmill going nowhere. Right back where you started.

I tried, but I can’t sit still. It’s as if someone’s pumped my veins with electric juice, crackle, frizzle. Head’s full of static interference. Fuck Reno. Fucking _fuck_ him. This is exactly how he wants me to feel, and why is it that even though I know he was lying my body won’t relax out of flight or fight mode, and I’m picturing myself tearing a hole in these steel plates with my bare hands and running all the way to Aunt Pansy’s farm without stopping for breath -

My door. It’s opening.

“Tseng!” Never, ever have I been so happy to see him. And that’s saying something.

“Rufus?”

He’s coming over – glancing across at the mirror, quick detour to open the curtains. Eyes on me. Mustn’t let him see how agitated I am. Sit. Let’s sit. Me on my side of the table, he on his.

“Is something wrong?” He sounds concerned. He looks worried. God, how fucked up are we? I show him I’m glad to see him, and he immediately leaps to the conclusion that _something is wrong_?

He’s looking at my hands. They’re shaking. I didn’t realise. Hide them under the table, quickly.

“Are you ill, Rufus?”

“Is Dark Nation dead?” That came out a little more abruptly than I intended.

“What?”

“Is she alive? Just tell me.”

“Why wouldn’t she be?”

“Don’t prevaricate!” I’m shouting. Bad. Weak. Must not shout.

“As far as I know, she’s fine. What’s brought this on?”

“Nothing. I had a bad dream. I need to know - “

“Calm yourself. Your hound is fine.”

“Promise me. Promise me she’s alive.”

“I promise you, Dark Nation is alive and well.”

Can I believe him? “I want to see her.”

“If you’re in a hurry to get out of here, you know what you need to do.”

Is it possible they planned this between them, him and Reno? Planted the seed of panic in my mind, now using it to lever information out of me. If only I had something to give them. “Bring her here. You could bring her here.”

“Your father has forbidden it.”

Of course he has. Of course he has. He hates my hound, because I love her. If he ordered Tseng to shoot her, could Tseng refuse? Would he? I can’t protect her, I’m trapped in here. Trapped in this room breathing recycled air. Stifling. We’re at my old man’s mercy. Mercy? That’s a joke. He hates me more than he loves me, but he needs me more than he hates me. My seams are unravelling. I’m coming apart. This fucking noise inside my head -

“Sit down.”

I didn’t know I was standing. When did I stand up? I can’t remember.

“Sit _down_, Rufus.”

I sit. Cold hard chair catches me.

“Breathe.”

He won’t touch me. He never touches me. Not since. Only with his voice. Firm. Steady.

Am I going crazy?

Did I say that out loud? He looks so worried.

“Rufus, you have to calm down. I promise you Dark Nation is fine. You know your aunt Palmer wouldn’t let any harm come to her. Those animals are her children. I’m getting you a glass of water - “

“Tea.”

I want tea. I’ve drunk nothing but water for weeks. Nanny’s tepid nursery tea, more than half-milk and loaded with sugar, that’s what I want.

He’s gesturing at whoever is behind the two-way mirror. Will they bring me tea? I would so love a cup of tea. And one of Alex’s fatties, I could really do with one of those right now.

“Rufus, if it would make you feel better, I can ask Miss Palmer to send some photographs of Dark Nation. She could send them on a regular basis, say once a fortnight. Would that reassure you?”

Reno’s the liar. Tseng’s not a liar. I believe him.

My body believes him too. My muscles are slowly unclenching, letting go of their fear.

I knew it, I _knew_ Reno was lying. I know my girl, she’s a good girl, she would never hurt a flea unless I gave her the order. She’s safer on the farm than she is here. Why did I let myself get so worked up? I’m so relieved, I could laugh. Stoned on sheer relief. It feels like I’m floating…

Bloody hell, though, I am tired. Is it possible to be stoned on exhaustion? Whacked, that’s the word. Still my brain won’t stop fizzing. As if I’d OD’d on hypers.

“Deep breaths,” says Tseng.

In through the nose, count to three, out through the mouth, the way the doctor taught me when I was small. Get that stale air out of your lungs; get that oxygen to your brain.

Is oxygen a good idea when your mind’s on fire?

“Keep breathing.”

Yes, yes, Tseng, I am breathing, thank you. My autonomous nervous system hasn’t collapsed yet. I’m calm now. I’m calm.

It occurs to me to wonder, “Where does Aunt Pansy think I am? What did you tell her?”

“The same story we put out on the S.I.N. You’re on an extended business trip.”

“Does she believe that? If I were going on a business trip, I’d take Dark Nation with me.”

He gives the slightest of shrugs. “She’d find the truth even less believable. She’s always thought very highly of you.”

That is true. Aunt Pansy knows as well as I do that Dad is an unmitigated evil, but even so. Gentlemen don’t murder their own fathers, Rufus. My dear boy, some things are simply not _done_. People in our position have a duty to set an example. If we all started murdering everyone we disliked, soon there would be nobody left.

He’s watching me the way a doctor might watch a feverish patient. Keeping a close eye. Cautiously optimistic. I seem a little better now. But stay alert: I could relapse at any moment.

He could have been a doctor, in another life. He could have been a brilliant diagnostician, patiently and methodically dissecting the most baffling ailments. All that objective ruthlessness could have been channeled into objective compassion. With those clever hands of his, he’d have made a magnificent surgeon. Up to his elbows in blood. And I could have been his Chief Administrator, fighting the indifference of vested interests in order to keep our plucky little hospital afloat.

Or I could have been his patient. How good he would have been at delivering bad news. “I’m sorry, Mr Shinra, the test results aren’t what we hoped for.” “Give it to me straight, Doctor. How long have I got?” The metaphorical gun to the temple. “A few weeks, sir, or maybe months, but the pain will be appalling.” “Then shoot me now, Doctor, don’t let me suffer.” I surrender myself to his healing hands -

Would you bloody believe it, now I’m getting a hard-on. Really? Must every part of my body conspire to humiliate me today? It’s because I’m so tired. Thank god for this table that hides my shame. Get down, will you? I need to think about something else. Maths. Trig. How would I find the maximum value of 5cosA plus 12sinA plus x if x is -

Oh good, here’s Mink with my tea: wooden tray, checked cloth, yellow teapot, two mugs, one a souvenir of Mideel and the other plain white, milk jug, sugar, spoon with the Shinra logo, and even two chocolate crème biscuits; she’s thought of everything. The white mug smells of coffee. For Tseng.

For the last time, will you get down? Or shall I pour this hot tea all over you and pretend it was an accident, oops, my hand slipped? Aha, that frightens you, doesn’t it? Now behave.

“Is that all, sir?” she asks him. He nods.

I meet her eyes as she turns to go, and find in them a look of mingled disgust and pity. Understandable. I’m a pathetic creature today.

She makes a nice cup of tea, though.

“You were saying you had a nightmare, Rufus?”

He’s thinking of four-year-old me, afraid the people around him would start disappearing if he allowed himself to fall asleep.

When I was four years old, I had no secrets from him. I could tell him anything. From the first moment I saw him I knew I could trust him. I trust him still. If I told him how I’m feeling right now, what would he do?

A dizzying prospect. Like standing on the edge of a building, contemplating throwing oneself into thin air, tempted by the dream of flying.

“Rufus? Do you want an aspirin? A tranquiliser?”

No, Tseng, I do not want a bloody tranq. I want to _feel_. Can’t I be allowed to simply sit here and drink my tea and look at you and _feel_ your presence and enjoy this lovely, aching, restless, happy sadness of longing you bring into the room when you enter, and leave behind, like the lingering scent of your aftershave, when you go?

I know exactly what would happen if I threw myself off this cliff-edge. I’d smash on the ground like a raw egg.

Oh no, no, no - worse. Worse. He’d try to catch me and put me down gently.

Let’s suppose, hypothetically, that I put my feelings into words for him and he rejected me. Which he would, of course. Rejection is a given. The difference in our stations alone would make it an impossible proposition in his eyes. If he knew about my feelings, he’d feel responsible for them. He would do his best to soften the blow of rejection. He would crush me with kindness. He would say unbearably patronising things, thinking they were helpful, such as _you’ll grow out of it_, and _all boys go through this phase_. He would tell me to get over it. Because that’s his job. And I would be obliged to try. And I would fail.

Too, too awkward.

I don’t want my joy to become his burden.

And even if -

What am I thinking? I really must be a little bit crazy today. My old man would kill him.

“How are you feeling now, Rufus?”

If I told him how I felt, he’d be - flabbergasted. Shocked and horrified. He’d tell me I was wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong…

He doesn’t believe he is worthy of love. That’s the problem. That’s why he lays his heart in a dank puddle for his slum angel to trample. He doesn’t think he deserves any better. 

One mustn’t forget the slum angel. Even if - I mean, even _if_, he may not be my way inclined. I’ve been studying him for fifteen years, I know almost everything about him, and yet I’m not sure how he leans. Both ways? Neither? This crucial piece of information remains elusive. He’s like a house with one black-out window. The mystery of the locked room. People regularly try to pick him up; I’ve seen them. Allegra’s sister slipped him her phone number at the Rocket Launch, to my intense irritation. Did he call her? If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say he didn’t. Veld taught him never to mix business with pleasure, and Veld’s teachings are as holy writ to him.

And yet, here am I, a living breathing secret in a locked room, and no mystery to myself.

He’s leaning over to pour me a second cup of tea.

Welcome back, friend hard-on. You’re determined to keep me company today, I see.

Could I feel this way for someone who was constitutionally incapable of reciprocating? I don’t believe I would. There has to be _something_, some spark of mutuality…

He appreciates beautiful things. And he has good taste, despite the shortcomings in his formal education. I mean, just _look_ at him. His immaculate hair. His manicured nails. Those cufflinks are perfection. He claims to know nothing about art, but whenever he’s escorted me to a gallery opening, his eye is drawn unerringly to the best piece in the place.

I’ve caught him looking at me a few times - not since all this happened, but before - as if he liked what he saw. As if looking at me gave him pleasure. And why not? I’m not ugly. If he’s interested in fucking men at all, I mean _at all_, why wouldn’t he think about fucking me? Everybody else does. And sometimes I let them. And he has the job of reading all about it, all the details of my drab vanilla sexcapades with various nice girls from the right families. So really, is it totally inconceivable that in all this time he has never, ever, ever once imagined having me for himself?

For all I know, he could be thinking about it right now.

Wouldn’t that be ironic?

He maintains a cool facade, sitting there looking like there’s nothing on his mind but today’s to-do list, but inside, he could be picturing me bent over this table for him, his imagination could be running riot with my naked body, and how would I know? One of his hands is resting on the table, but where’s the other? Out of sight. And we all know what that means. He could be touching himself right now, thinking about me. He’d only have to shift a few inches to the right and he’d be able to put his hand on my thigh. I mean it’s not impossible that at this very moment he’s busy under the table fingering his stiff prick through the fabric of his trousers like this, wishing it was _my_ hand touching him and imagining how amazing that would feel -

Stop. Stop. What the fuck am I doing? He’s _right here_. Fucking hell. Stop thinking _fuck._ Think of a word that has all the vowels in reverse order. Un-something. Unnoticeable. This stiffy’s not unnoticeable. Something else - chess puzzle. One, Nf6+ Kg7. Or Kh8? D8 = Q+, that’s mate in three -

“Rufus, is there some point to this silent treatment?”

“Leave me alone.” My voice! Like a half-strangled child. I haven’t sounded this hormonal since I was thirteen years old.

“What?”

I need to clear my throat first. “Could you - go away?”

“You’re acting very strangely today.”

“So?”

“I don’t think you’re well. Your face is flushed. Are you running a fever?” He’s rising in his seat, as if he’s going to reach over and feel my forehead -

“Don’t touch me!”

He draws his hand back, sits down slowly, never taking his eyes off me. He’s wondering, am I sick? Am I losing my mind? Or am I simply being difficult again? “What’s wrong with you, Rufus? You’re not still worried about Dark Nation?”

Of the three options, I prefer being difficult. “Are you dense, Tseng? What do you think’s wrong with me? Use your bloody imagination. I’m stuck in here, with you, that’s what’s wrong. I’m sick of it. I’m sick of this place. I’m sick of your face. I don’t want to talk to you. Go away, leave me alone.”

I wouldn’t blame him for thinking I really am mentally unstable. I jumped for joy when he came in, and now, I’m lashing out at him. Erratic barely begins to cover it.

He sighs, “Whatever you think you’re playing at, I don’t have time for it today.”

“I’m not playing at anything. I want to be left alone, that’s all. I’m tired.”

He pushes his chair back - harsh scrape of metal on tile - and stands up. “Very well, then.”

Is that all? He’s turning to go -

There’s my cat. Sitting between him and the door. Back turned to us, it’s washing its ears with one paw.

“That thing shouldn’t even be here,” he says.

“Take it. I don’t care.”

He doesn’t take it. He’s looking back at me, decision in his eyes. “You’re not well. I’m going to ask Mink to give you a sedative. Please don’t fight her. I’ll look in on you later.”

The cat doesn’t budge.

He steps over it.

He’s gone.

I can breathe.

That… was not good.

It could have been worse. I handled it badly, but at least I didn’t say anything I’ll regret.

Although…

Is this how it’s going to be from now on? I’m pretty resilient, but I don’t know how much more I can take without genuinely losing my mind. My predicament would drive anybody crazy. In fact, how do I know I’m not already going crazy? Do insane people recognise that they’re descending into madness? Or do they continue to define themselves as normal and the rest of the world as the crazy place, even while it’s obvious to everyone around them that they’re going into psychological meltdown?

Here’s Mink. I’ll have to let her give me that tranq now.


	29. Chapter 29

Come here, Cat. Come sit with me, that’s right. You’re so lovely and warm. I want to apologise to you for that panic attack earlier. I’m sorry you had to see me that way. You must have wondered what possessed me. To be honest, I too was taken by surprise. I haven’t had such a bad attack since… Probably since I was eleven years old, when Dad told me I wouldn’t be going to Penscombe with my friends. I managed to hold myself together in his presence, but as soon as I left his office I went to pieces. I didn’t want Wendy or anyone to see me hyperventilating, so I hid under the stairs. Passed out. Woke to a ring of faces looking down on me, foremost of which was Dad. He called me a drama queen. _See, this is why we have to toughen you up, boy_.

I haven’t had a panic attack in years. I rather hoped I’d grown out of them. The last one… It must have been on my fifteenth birthday, at the HoneyBee in with your pal Reno.

But you know, Cat, the more I reflect on that incident, the more I suspect my memory is playing tricks with me. As I recall it, the reason I panicked when Reno offered me the Wuteng girl was my fear that he’d discovered how I felt about Tseng. Which makes no sense. Why would I suspect Reno of knowing my secret feelings, when those feelings were so secret I didn’t yet know them myself? I would have panicked no matter which woman he shoved at me. With girls my own age, girls I’d known since infancy, it was easy to pass as normal. They asked so little of me. A real woman would have seen through me in five seconds flat. My subconscious needed to get me out of the danger zone or risk uncovering a truth it had been working very hard to keep hidden from by conscious knowledge. And so, I panicked.

Would you believe I used to consider myself asexual? Yes, well may you give me that disdainful look. What _grand_ self-delusions. All the same, I sometimes feel a little nostalgia for my asexual phase. It allowed me to feel so effortlessly superior. Perched on my high-minded high horse, I could look down with mingled amusement and contempt on the Hughie Babbingtons of this world, enslaved to their carnal lusts. I was so much more evolved than they were, so much more cerebral. I might occasionally condescend to let a girl touch me, but I always remained the master of the situation, and of myself.

Of course I was never really asexual, merely in denial. And consequently, doing it with the wrong people.

Why did I allow myself to be imprisoned by denial for so long? Perhaps… because it wasn’t only a prison? It offered a kind of freedom, too. Freedom from fear.

I wasted so many years of my life being afraid, Cat. It probably started when my mother died, an event I don’t even remember. I was only two weeks old. Cerebral thrombosis, apparently. Out of the blue. One moment she was there and the next she was gone, and so the first thing my little subconscious learnt is that the people you need and love the most can leave you. They can vanish without warning. I spent my whole childhood running scared, but I didn’t understand the source of my fear and so _everything_ frightened me: loud noises, the dark, a running bath left unattended, cartoons about baby animals separated from their mothers, a new food I’d never tasted before, strangers, my own dreams. My father. Him most of all. His power terrified me. I was desperate to please him. I was afraid he would abandon me too.

But fear without respect soon turns to hatred. My fifteenth birthday, that was the tipping point. That was when I stopped being paralysed by fear of my father’s anger, and started generating some anger of my own.

How I wish I’d discovered anger earlier. Anger is so much better than fear. Fear is debilitating. Anger is _energizing_. Some people - Dad’s the perfect example - lose their temper too easily; they blow up when they get angry, see red, unleash random destruction. I’m not like that. My anger is ice. It leaves my mind clear to think and plan.

When Dad made me leave school, when he took my freedom from me, the force of my rage was what kept me from falling into despair. Even then, though, I hadn’t completely shaken off the grip of fear. That final liberation only came about when I lost Alex.

Alex, my friend; Avalanche, my dreams of revenge against my father; Mercedes, my unfinished business: losing them so quickly one after the other was like being put through a mangle and squeezed until there was nothing left. I didn’t care any more. I’d been wrung out, distilled to dry intellect, and I wasn’t afraid of anything. I had nothing left to lose.

I’d already stopping guarding my words. The Nibelheim incident had changed me. Whatever was in my mind, I spoke it. I told Dad and the whole Board that the rocket launch was a fatuous waste of money. I fought him tooth and nail in the boardroom over the space program. If I made him so angry he sacked me, I didn’t care. If he disowned me, I didn’t care. I informed him I intended to learn how to fly a helicopter. It would be my eighteenth birthday present to myself. He said, _What do you want to do that for? We have all the pilots you need._ But he couldn’t stop me. Reno resented being obliged to teach me. I didn’t give a shit.

I couldn’t be bothered with a birthday party. Dad laid on the usual dinner. I only showed up for Aunt Pansy’s sake.

I’d lost interest in my Junon office and my investments. The whole point of them had been blown up in Wutai along with Avalanche. Armiger could take care of business for me. She preferred a free hand anyway.

The last weekend of February was an exeat weekend for Penscombe. Hughie’s parents were going to be out of town so, in a demonstration of exactly the kind of crass decision-making one would expect from someone whose emotional intelligence has been stunted since birth, Hughie decided to throw a party. Alex hadn’t even been dead three months. Mercedes, less than two. I told him I wouldn’t be coming. I wasn’t in the mood. He said, “But Rufe, everybody will be there.”

I fully intended to boycott his party. However, when I mentioned it in passing to Dad, he said, “Did you forget we’ll be in Costa del Sol this weekend, son? It’s the conference of the Chairs of the Western Chamber of Commerce Association.”

I said, “I never agreed to that. Please don’t accept invitations on my behalf without consulting me.”

“Saturday morning is golf morning. I’m counting on you to be my partner.”

“Why? I’m no good at golf.”

“You could be, with more practice.”

“I hate golf.”

“People expect to see you.”

“I don’t care. If you need a partner, take Skeeter. He can double as your caddie. I’m going to Hughie’s party.”

Dad put up less resistance than I expected. More and more he seemed to be running low on the energy to oppose me. That’s the magical thing about anger, Cat. It’s like an Absorb materia. It sucks the fight out of your enemy while boosting your own.

I arrived late; the party was already in full swing. My Turk that night was Aviva. A febrile atmosphere prevailed: everybody trying as hard as they could to have a good time, but few succeeding. I roamed from room to room looking for my friends, what was left of them. No Johnny of course. SOLDIER had swallowed him. No Kitty. No Allegra. Hughie had promised me everyone would be here.

Wait staff circulated with champagne cocktails. I don’t normally drink for the sake of getting drunk, but that night I was throwing them back. I took a spliff from someone’s fingers and finished it. Someone gave me a hyper and I took it. I found a tranq in the bathroom cabinet and I drank it. You’d think they’d cancel each other out but they don’t. Nothing alleviated my restlessness. I killed some time on the library sofa with a Minerva House girl (Madison? Mackenzie?) but she began getting hot and bothered while I was still stone cold, and I thought, _Why am I doing this when it does nothing for me?_ and I got up and left her there. I didn’t care.

As I wandered through Hughie’s party in search of something or someone to alleviate my boredom, I became aware that I was being followed. Someone other than my Turk had their eye on me. The hairs on the back of my neck began to prickle. It wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. I’d call it - anticipation. Like the charge in the air before a storm. You feel something’s coming.

I had to stop and turn two or three times before I caught him in the act of looking at me. I’d never seen him before, and I know everyone on the party circuit in Midgar. My first instinct - a knee-jerk instinct, the residual habit of fear - was to wonder if he was an assassin sent to kill me. I’ve seen death in the eyes of my Turks. This man was looking at me with a different kind of desire. Also one not-unfamiliar to me. Had it happened a year earlier, or even six months earlier, fear would have scattered my wits and I’d have turned and fled. Not this time.

The cocktails and the drugs had something to do with it. Looking back now, I’m convinced I took them on purpose, Cat. To lower my inhibitions. I wanted something like this to happen.

I headed for the morning room, where Hughie had set up a little casino. My admirer followed. I could feel the heat of his gaze, though its nature had changed to one of mutual awareness. He knew that I knew he was pursuing me and that I was, let’s say, willing to see what would happen next. Space was created for me at the blackjack table. I lost five hundred gil, then won three thousand. He stood not far away, watching me. The player on my right got up and left.

“Is this seat free?” he asked.

“Be my guest.”

What did he look like? I can’t really remember. Handsome in a generic way, attractive enough for my purposes. Tall. A bit older than me. An abundance of light brown curly hair. His aftershave had floral tones.

He indicated my pile of chips and said, “Looks like you’re in luck tonight.”

As pick-up lines go, pretty cringeworthy. Nevertheless, I was potentially prepared to overlook it.

“It’s not luck,” I said. “It’s skill.”

We played a few rounds and made some desultory conversation. He didn’t say anything interesting that I can recall. Someone else asked to join the game; we had to make space to squeeze her in. He edged his chair closer. His leg, pressed against mine, generated a patch of heat that slowly spread round my thighs and up to my groin. Under the cover of the table, he laid his hand over my dick.

Brave of him, I thought, when he couldn’t know for sure whether I’d welcome his advances, and my Turk was standing not two metres away.

A waitress came round with drinks. He handed me one, gave one to the girl on his other side, took one for himself.

I’d made up my mind. If I wanted to, then I would. I was going to do whatever I bloody well pleased, and Dad could go to hell. Everything could go to hell for all I cared.

But I wasn’t yet sure that I wanted to.

My cheeks were beginning to feel flushed. If I waited much longer, I wouldn’t be able to move from my chair without everyone seeing what he’d done to me. I rose to my feet. To the company I said, “If you’ll excuse me? I’ll be back presently.” To Aviva I said, “I’m going to get some air. Wait here.”

The hallway was crowded with people dancing. The DJ was playing _Give me Some (Human Touch)._ There’s a word for that. Not coincidence. Not fate. Synchronicity. At the foot of the staircase some lingering common sense prevailed long enough for me to cast Wall around myself. Halfway up the stairs, I turned and looked down. My Turk was standing in the casino room doorway, eyeing me anxiously, and my handsome stranger was on my tail, weaving between the dancers with a graceful ease that reminded me, quite forcefully, of someone else.

Lust overwhelmed me. I think I might have forgotten to breathe. Our eyes met. It sounds so melodramatic now, remembering; but at the time? A revelation. The most exciting, dangerous, _real_ thing that had ever happened in my entire life. In the course of those ten seconds we held an entire wordless conversation. Yes? Yes.

I continued up the stairs. He followed at a discreet distance. I felt as if I were walking on air. Everything and everybody else had faded away. In my memory, we’re alone in that house. I found an empty bedroom, went in. He joined me a couple of minutes later. He locked the door. This was precisely the situation Veld had told me a million times I must never allow myself to get into. He could have killed me. I didn’t care.

When his hands came into contact with my fading Barrier, he stared at me in amazement. His fingertips must have been tingling. That’s funny. Did he think the magic was _me_?

When he got down to my bullet-proof vest, he drew back for a moment, as if suddenly having second thoughts. “What the hell?” he said. I took it off myself.

He kept saying _You’re beautiful, fuck, fuck, you’re beautiful_, and the sound of his voice was threatening to throw me right out of my trance. Shut up and get on with it. I was harder than I would have thought it possible to be. I closed my eyes. He put my fingers in his mouth and sucked them. He put his other hand on my dick. That was all it took.

You’d think I’d have been embarrassed, coming so quickly like that. I wasn’t. Like my Barrier spell, my inhibitions had completely faded away. I let him do what he liked. He nuzzled me all over. Slightly strange and perhaps not the most erotic thing I’ve ever had done to me, but not unpleasant. He sucked me off and that was amazing and strange because I both came and I didn’t come: I had an orgasm but nothing came out, which I didn’t even think was possible; he saw my astonishment and started explaining _blah blah too soon blah blah_ and I thought_ who asked you? Shut up. Don’t talk._ I put my hand over his mouth and he got the message.

Then he fucked me. My first and, to date, my only experience of letting someone get inside me. _Inside me._ I mean, when you think about it, it’s insane. Somebody else’s body inside your body. It took him a long time to get all the way in. _Hurry up, _I was thinking; and he kept saying “Is this all right? Are you okay?” He just would not shut up. And then he was moving inside me. Even in my own mind I can’t find the words to describe what it was like. Normally I tend to live too much in my head, but for the duration of that glorious fucking I was so completely inhabiting, so fully aware of every single atom in my body that I forgot to think. All I could do was feel. Wave after wave after wave of pleasure – Oh! I tore holes in the bedsheets with my fingernails, I remember that now. And his grunting. It sounded so far away it might have come from another universe. I wanted to go on and on and never stop, but I couldn’t stave off the end forever; I came so hard I convulsed it all the way down to my toes and all the way up my spine, to the top of my head. And then I blacked out.

Until this encounter, I had assumed people who talked about sex as ‘the thing that makes worth life worth living’ were either deluded or deliberately exaggerating. In truth - I thought - sex was pleasant enough, if rather less physically satisfying than a really good game of tennis. I thought everybody else knew this too, but no one wanted to admit it for fear of looking like a loser. I could understand why someone like Hughie, with no discernable talents or intelligence, might think sex was the only thing that made _his_ life worth living, but I was an altogether higher calibre of human being.

Well. I was a fool, wasn’t I, Cat? Unfortunately, being wiser now than I was before does nothing at all to help me in my present predicament.

I can’t have been unconscious for long. A few seconds. Coming back to my senses felt like waking from a dream. My head hurt. I was shocked to see a stranger looking down at me, when I’d been expecting to see - all right, yes, Tseng.

I’d completely forgotten about this other fellow.

Be careful when you let your walls come down. You don’t know what might be bricked up inside them. Ah, no, that’s not true, Rufus. Shame on you. That’s the old way of thinking. I knew, Cat. Of course I knew. I just didn’t want to admit it.

This other man was saying, gasping, “Wow. Just - wow. Fucking amazing.” He touched my face and said, “You’re crying.”

Oh my dear god, the humiliation. I rolled away from him, wondering where my clothes were, wondering how fast I could get out of there, wondering if my Turk was on the other side of the door and had heard everything.

He said, “Don’t go yet.”

I have no idea what the correct etiquette is for this sort of encounter; it’s not something they taught us at Penscombe. I do know I wasn’t very polite. I’d found my mythril vest and was holding in front of me like a shield. My legs were still shaking. I said, “Who the fuck are you?”

He told me his name, but I didn’t take it in. There was some connection to Hughie’s sister. Uni friend? Artist?

I said, “Do you know who I am?”

To be fair, though, I don’t believe he deliberately set out to fuck Rufus Shinra. It was me he wanted.

He said, “Can I see you again?”

If I’d had my gun on me I might actually have shot him. “Forget it,” I said, pulling my clothes on while I spoke. “Forget this happened. You don’t know me. Stay away from me. If I ever see you again I won’t be answerable for your safety.”

A rap on the door. My Turk’s voice: “Sir, is everything all right?”

“She has a gun,” I told him.

The fear in his eyes. For me, a reassuring sight. If he knew enough to be afraid, he knew enough to keep his mouth shut. “You will never tell anyone about this. Understood?”

Having got myself dressed, more or less, I left the room barefoot, carrying my shoes, and shut the door behind me. My Turk’s face was a picture, but she kept her thoughts to herself. As she should. I sat down in the corridor and put my shoes on. The party was still going strong. I checked her watch. In the space of just over an hour I had left the known world and returned a changed man, but back on earth everything was the same as it had always been. “Let’s go home,” I said.

Walking posed a challenge. Aviva kept close to my side, ready to catch me.

Back at my place I collapsed onto my bed and fell into a deep, deep, refreshing sleep from which I didn’t wake until Sunday afternoon.

I fully expected to be summoned to Dad’s office first thing Monday morning, grabbed by the scruff of my neck and thrown out the window. That is, if he could bring himself to touch me. I was ready. Bring it on. Let him do his worst; I didn’t care. But I received no summons, and when we met for lunch his manner to me was unchanged. Clearly, nobody had informed him.

Aviva must have filed a report. Her Commander must have read it. Veld chose to keep my secret, filing it away in the locked filing cabinet inside his skull, and, I presume, ordering Aviva to say nothing. Why? That’s easy. Because he didn’t want my one-night stand to sink the boat he’d spent his life building. He hadn’t spent all these years grooming me to be the perfect President, only to see his hard work destroyed by a meaningless peccadillo. A man whose moral cupboard is as scantily furnished as Commander Veld’s is hardly going to get his knickers in a twist over two random strangers enjoying a casual fuck. I could shag chocobos for all he cares, as long as I’m discreet about it.

Tseng was out of the office that week, a fortuitous coincidence for which I was profoundly grateful. How could I possibly have been in the same room with him, when the mere sound of his name made me blush and stammer and _yearn _to hear it spoken again? To be smitten with passion for a stranger is one thing; to suddenly unearth such deeply buried longings for someone I’d known all my life felt… Well, to be honest, Cat, it made me feel like a bit of an idiot. A happy idiot, though. Which, in some ways, is the strangest thing of all. I long for someone I can’t have. You would think I’d have been happier in denial.

I decided to go down to Junon. I wanted to see Armiger. More than a month had passed since our last meeting. I didn’t want her to think I was slacking. That’s how I explained to myself my urgent need to go to Junon. However, what I really wanted, or needed, was someone to talk to. This became clear once we’d got through the usual greetings and small talk, and her secretary had brought us tea, and I’d settled down on the sofa to read a stack of company reports, and Armiger was working at her desk, because I looked up and said,

“Can I tell you something?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.” She was joking. I think.

“This is serious. I think I might be gay.” 

Even with Armiger I couldn’t come right out and say it, could I? I still had to hedge it with _ mights_ and _maybes_.

She reacted exactly as I knew she would. Calmly and unemotionally. She put down her pen and sat back in her chair, thinking over what I’d just confided to her. At last she said, “Is that what’s been keeping you away? You’ve been busy figuring yourself out?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“I reckoned you’d lost interest. What with everything that’s happened.”

That’s the closest she has ever come to mentioning Pia and Mercedes’s death to me. Or Avalanche. She has never once referred to Fuhito by name since the day she told me she was glad he was dead.

She said, “Well, that’s probably no bad thing.”

“That I’m gay?”

“That’s a neutral thing. Knowing yourself, that’s a good thing.”

“I haven’t told anyone but you.”

“What about your father?”

“He would, quite literally, kill me.”

She thought about this. Then she said, “Is that why you wanted him dead?”

This was no small question she was asking me, Cat. It proved she had some grasp of the seriousness of my situation. The possibility that I was trying to kill Dad before he killed me.

But if she’d given it a little more thought, she would have realised the answer was No. My conspiracy with Fuhito went back three years. I’d known for sure I was gay for less than a week. My father’s small-minded, vicious bigotry is one of the reasons I hate him, but I have objective reasons for wanting him dead. Things much more important than my personal welfare are at stake here.

I said, “I told you, I’ve given up on that plan.”

“It was a bad plan.”

“I don’t need to kill him to get rid of him. I’m working on it.”

“You should talk to him. Tell him about yourself.”

I was expecting her to suggest something like this. It’s what a normal sane person would say. If Flourish came to Armiger and told her she was gay, Armiger would love her just the same. When Alex told his parents, they hugged him and said _Oh darling, we’ve always known. _

“Never. That will never happen.”

“You might discover you’re wrong about him.”

She’s such a good woman, Cat. So well-intentioned. But she has no idea. “I’d discover what it feels like to be ripped limb from limb. I’m not wrong about him. I’ve lived with him my entire life. I know him.”

“So you say, but I reckon no child ever really knows its parents. And maybe no parent ever really knows their child. But as a mother myself, I’ll tell you this: the one thing every parent longs for, more than anything else, is for their child to be happy.”

Which, funnily enough, is exactly what Veld said to me at Corel. Coming from his mouth, it sounded like bullshit.

She said, “Can you be happy living a lie?”

“I’m used to it.”

“He’ll expect you to find a wife and have kids eventually.”

“I can still do that. I don’t think I’m one hundred per cent gay. I’ve had girlfriends. I might be bisexual. But predominantly gay.”

“Labels don’t really matter. The important thing is to be honest.”

I knew she was right. And talking about Dad wasn’t going to get us anywhere and it bored me. I wanted to talk about someone else. I said, “There’s a person I can’t stop thinking about.”

“Is he a friend of yours? A boy? A man?”

“A man.”

“He’s important to you?”

“The most important person.”

“I see. And he’s the one - “

‘No. Not - No.”

“Have you told him?”

“I can’t tell him. I can never tell him. It’s utterly impossible. You’ll have to take my word on that.”

“Something so important about yourself… It’s hard to keep that hidden.”

Hard? Yes. Exhausting? Yes. Impossible? No. Concealing my feelings is something I like to think I’m rather good at. This morning’s shameful episode was an egregious lapse that won’t happen again. It wouldn’t have happened in the first place if Reno hadn’t lied to me about Dark Nation. I’d really rather he broke my arm. But I suppose he knows that.

Of course, it helps that the object of my desire is completely and utterly obtuse.

Anyway, Cat, enough about me. What about you? You seem content to snooze your life away curled up on my pillow. Don’t you ever fancy a little rumpy-pumpy? You’re a tom-cat, you have a reputation to uphold. We’ll have to devise a way for you to come and go as you please. I don’t think Tseng would allow us to put a cat flap in the door, but I could probably talk Skeeter into cutting a little hole for you in the ventilation grille. You could squeeze through that, couldn’t you? You wouldn’t get lost, you’re used to roaming where you like in this building. Though if you ever found another cat in this place, I’d be very surprised. I’m fairly certain you’re the only one.


	30. Chapter 30

He’s back.

He’s carrying two steaming mugs, one tea and one coffee. The tea smells like thoughtfulness. He’s pleased to see I’ve eaten everything on my dinner plate. “You were hungry. Did you sleep? Did the sedative help?”

I ate, I slept, I ran on the treadmill… The essential point is, I’m in command of myself again. “It helped.”

I sit. He pulls open the curtain on the two-way mirror. Protocol, I assume. He also sits. We’re in our accustomed places.

“Tseng, am I allowed to ask about Aviva?”

“There’s been no change.”

“I am sorry.” I _am_ sorry. I liked – no, must not think of her as dead, she’s not dead, she’s in a mako coma and she might yet recover. She’s a good Turk. She has spirit. I like her. But I don’t think he believes me; last time I said I was sorry, he rebuked me, and knowing he doesn’t believe me makes my apology sound insincere even to my own ears. Still, I have to say it. Saying nothing would be worse.

“Rufus, does Fuhito have a materia lab?”

“I don’t know. He had a lab. He might have made materia in it. He was interested in making materia, we know that, but whether he ever made any, I can’t say. Why do you ask?”

“When we recovered Aviva from Corel, we found a strange materia in her pocket. I’ve never seen one like it before. We think it might have given her some protection when she fell into the mako. The dose she took should have been lethal.”

“Is it natural or manufactured?”

“We can’t tell.”

“What colour is it?”

“That’s the strange thing. It changes colour.”

“Unusual. What does it do?”

“Nothing, as far as we can tell. None of us can get a feel for it, not even Mink, and she has the best materia potency in the department.”

“It has to do something. Materia always does something.”

“So they say, but I know - “

Why did he cut himself off like that? What does he know? Something classified? No, if it were classified he could tell me. Something personal?

“Perhaps,” he says, “Fuhito made it, and it’s a dud.”

That is not what he was going to say.

He goes on, “I wish I knew where she got it from. And when. Did she pick it up in reactor? Did Shears give it to her? He was the one who pulled her out of the mako pool.”

“How heroic of him.” I hate sounding snide, but I can’t seem to help it. Shears was working with Avalanche to blow up the Corel reactor, which was _not_ something I desired or asked for or remotely approved of, and now he’s the good guy because he rescued Aviva.

Tseng says, “Shears and Fuhito have parted company,” although he knows I already know this.

“It would appear I’m not the only one who became surplus to requirements.”

“We think he’s travelling with the Commander.”

“Combining their forces in the quest for the prodigal daughter. Are you still in communication with Veld, Tseng?”

“No.”

He’s telling the truth. I can see it in his face. If he had any means of contacting Veld, he’d do it, whatever the risk involved. He wouldn’t be able to resist.

“Elfé - Felicia - must still be useful to Fuhito,” he says, “Or she would have been discarded as well. What use might he have for her, Rufus?”

“Protection? Bodyguard? She’s a killing machine.”

“No other use that you know of?”

“Aside from the obvious, no.”

My reply displeases him. It strikes him as a little _heartless. _This is the Commander’s daughter we’re talking about. Show some respect please. How inauthentic of him. Very little could make Tseng happier than receiving the news that Felicia Veld is dead.

He says, “Did you know she was sick?”

“No. I thought she’d been blown up by the Legend.”

He’s giving me a searching look. “Did you?”

“I didn’t know they’d faked their deaths. I thought all three of them were dead, just as you did.”

“If that’s true - “ and he’s not saying he believes me, but for the sake of the inquiry he’s going with it - “There must have come a point, some time before the rocket launch, when you realised they’d survived. Who re-established contact? Was it Fuhito?”

“Yes.”

“How? Who was the go-between? And where? Here? In Junon? Through someone in your office there? Angie Armiger?”

“No! I never met him in Junon. Armiger had no more idea he was alive than I did. She had nothing to do with it, Tseng, I swear. It’s the truth. She loathes and despises Fuhito; she’d never have helped him to get back in touch with me.”

He’s looking hard at me. There’s a kind of shadow in his eyes. His jaw is working. How can I make him believe me?

“Well,” he says, “Where, then?”

All I can do is tell him what happened. “It was at Aunt Pansy’s farm…”

.

I went to Aunt Pansy’s straight from Junon, not yet having achieved that state of mind where I felt capable of encountering Tseng in the corridors of power multiple times on a daily basis. I arrived at the farm with no clear idea of how long I planned to stay. Possibly until after the idiotic rocket launch. I was tired of fighting that losing battle. My best protest might be to boycott the proceedings entirely. At least then I wouldn’t be associated in people’s minds with its failure.

In terms of its potential cost:benefit ratio, Dad’s space program was a guaranteed failure in the long run. Cost, excessive; benefit, nil. There is no mako in space. However, I was afraid that a successful rocket launch would create so much flag-waving hooplah that people would lose sight of the bigger picture. To cut our losses and save us from the humiliation of the inevitable long-term failure, I needed - _we_ needed - we, Shinra, everybody, we needed that launch to fail. And there were so many ways it could have failed. The rocket could have crashed on landing. Fallen into a populated area. Exploded on re-entry. Failed to stay in orbit. Best of all would be if it never got off the ground. But I had no means of ensuring any of these failures would come to pass.

Aunt Pansy could not have cared less about the rocket launch. Dad had sent her an invitation, but she didn’t plan on attending. She was busy preparing her birds to race in the Luca Paula festival the following week. Her grooms were worked off their feet; they welcomed an extra pair of hands. I fell into my usual routine: rising at dawn, long morning rides shadowed by my PSM detail, afternoons spent grooming and mucking out, falling exhausted into my bed each night to enjoy a deep, dreamless sleep. The constant physical exertion seemed to be doing the trick: after about a week I was no longer thinking about Tseng all day every day, and the flashbacks of my transcendent epiphany in that bedroom with that stranger were starting to fade. I began to think seriously about life as a farmer.

“Aunt Pansy, what would you say if I asked you to take me on as your apprentice? I could give up the business and come work for you.”

She hooted with laughed. “My darling boy, Julius would never allow it.”

“You could bend him to your will. You’ve done it before.”

“Your father is a stubborn old fart, but he knows when I’m right. I was right about Penscombe. It’s been the making of you. Dear Patricia would be so proud!”

“She could be proud of me if I were a chocobo trainer, couldn’t she?”

“Oh my dear boy, she would turn in her grave. You enjoy your visits here because it’s a holiday from your real life and because I spoil you, but this is not the future Patricia planned for you. Shinra is your patrimony. She would want you to have it. You’re not an ordinary person, Rufus; you can’t expect to have an ordinary life, so let’s hear no more of this twaddle. Oh, I almost forgot - something came in the post for you.”

She handed me a picture postcard of a bee and a flower. Symbiosis: the biologist’s riddle.

My legs gave way. Apparently that’s a thing that can happen. Luckily I was standing right next to a pile of mucky straw, which cushioned my fall. My PSM detail rushed over exclaiming _sir! Are you all right?_ and Aunt Pansy cried _Rufus! _and Dark Nation ran in circles barking. Many hands were competing to help me up; everyone wanted to know what had happened. I pretended I’d twisted my ankle, and then I had to endure being supported by two of my PSM while a third cast a completely unnecessary heal, and Aunt Pansy instructed me to go lie down on the sofa and put my leg up and she would bring me an ice pack. This suited me very well. I needed time to think.

How did he survive the Legend’s bombs? I still don’t know. The Legend thinks they deliberately set him up to destroy their Wutai HQ because they wanted to fake their own deaths and disappear underground. It was in some ways a more elegant solution to the problem the Legend posed than merely killing him and sending his head in a box to my father. So I think the Legend’s hypothesis could well be right. Disguising himself as his own ghost is absolutely the sort of thing Fuhito would do.

On the card he’d written, _We will meet again soon. _

That cryptic message threw me into a state of high alert. Hitherto, I’d been seeing Tseng’s face in all sorts of unlikely places, but now it was Fuhito I saw everywhere. I looked for him among the peasants tilling the fields who waved at me as I went past on my morning rides. I looked for him in every visitor who came to my aunt’s farm. In bed at night I lay awake watching the window, waiting for him to appear, nose pressed against the glass, smiling.

“Are you expecting somebody?” asked Aunt Pansy. “You know your friends are always welcome here.”

My friends are gone, dear Aunt. There’s no one left. Well, Hughie.

Was Fuhito waiting for me to find him? Acting on that assumption, every morning I took my ride in a different direction. I had a few false starts: countrymen going about their business, hewing wood, herding sheep, drawing water, setting traplines, and in one case a woman pulling a haycart, startled and frightened to find themselves accosted by the heir to Shinra, Inc. The last thing I wanted was for my security detail to twig that I was searching for a specific person, so I covered my blunders by asking these people questions about their work. I learnt some quite interesting things.

On the fifth day I rode to the stream that forms the eastern boundary of my aunt’s property. It runs on south another fifty kilometres until it empties into the great Zolom swamp, and on that day in late March the poplars and willows lining its bank were just beginning to come into leaf. Daffodils and crocuses; a spring breeze. On the far bank sat an elderly fisherman dressed in peasant’s garb, a wide straw hat on his head. He tipped up the brim of the hat at the sound of our approach, saw me, removed his hat, stood up, and bowed. When he raised his face, he was smiling.

Fishing, fishing… Fuhito loves his metaphors.

I told my security to stay where they were, jumped my bird across the stream, and dismounted. Dark Nation followed me, hackles bristling. It’s a good hound that is wiser than her master.

“Vice-President,” he said in his unmistakable voice, “I’m overcome.”

If he imagined I was going to flatter his ego by demanding to know how he had escaped the Legend’s bombs, he was very much mistaken. “Cockroaches don’t die, I see. What do you want?”

“To serve your honour, as always.”

“Is there any reason why I shouldn’t have you arrested right here, right now?”

“You could try. I see your men are armed. And what am I but a poor defenceless peasant peacefully enjoying this lovely spring morning? Don’t forget to order them to shoot me dead. It would be too inconvenient for you if I lived long enough to - what’s the phrase? - _spill the beans_. I’m sure they won’t have any objections to murdering a harmless old man for no reason on your orders.”

“You’re taking a big risk.”

“No,” he smiled at me, “I don’t think so.”

I devoted ten whole seconds to imagining ways of doing it. I could fake a fall into the stream, and shout to my guards that the old man had pushed me. That probably wouldn’t be enough to make them shoot to kill. I could signal Dark Nation to rip his throat out. But then my guards, who were all slightly afraid of her, might think she was attacking an innocent old man, and shoot _her. _

I said, “How did you find me?”

“Is your honour unaware that there are people whose entire working lives are devoted to tracking your movements and publishing them in the society columns for the pleasure and edification of the masses? That photo of yourself stripped to the waist shoveling chocobo manure was particularly well-received by your adoring populace. Carefully clipped out of a million colour supplements, it now adorns the bedroom walls of a million starstruck little girls - “

“I’m not giving you money. Not another gil.”

Fuhito tutted. “No need to fly off the handle. You mistake my purpose here. I haven’t come to utter threats, and I don’t want your money. We already owe you more than we can ever repay. I’ve come to ask if there is anything we can do for you, our most generous benefactor. If I may speak bluntly, we are in search of a target for our next mission. All recommendations will be gratefully received.”

And the thought sprang into my mind: _Rocket Launch._

_._

Tseng says, “Let me get this straight. After Charlie had disabled their organisation, and after your Gandara friends had paid for their stupidity with their lives, and all your links to Avalanche had been severed for you, you deliberately chose to entangle yourself all over again?”

“Tell me what else I could have done.”

“Walk away?”

“Yes. I suppose I could have done that. I suppose that would have been the high-minded thing to do. But you may have noticed the Shinra boardroom doesn’t operate by the same rules as the playing fields of Penscombe. I was fighting to win, Tseng. Fuhito was potentially useful to me. I couldn’t throw that away.”

“How could you still trust him, after everything that happened?”

“Did I say I trusted him? We were mutually dependent on each other. In fact, at that point, last March, I was probably the one in the weaker position. He knew where to find me. I had no idea where he’d gone to earth. And, let me remind you, Veld was stringing me along - “

“He wasn’t ‘stringing you along’.”

“He was stringing you along too. Allowing me to think he knew nothing, keeping you in the dark - “

“He didn’t tell me because I didn’t need to know.”

“Knowledge is power, Tseng.”

He’s hesitating. Not instinctively leaping to your Commander’s defense, Tseng? If knowledge is power, ignorance is weakness, and Veld deliberately left his Turks weak. Is Tseng thinking about that?

“The Commander believed the Avalanche problem had been resolved.”

“More fool him, then. In any case, I knew none of that. My understanding of my position was that Fuhito could easily ruin me at no cost to himself, while I couldn’t say anything without incriminating myself. Which was not something I was prepared to do. Not with everything to play for in the Boardroom.”

“So you instructed him to sabotage the rocket launch?”

“I absolutely did, yes.”

“But you didn’t ask him to kill your father?”

“Oh, I did that too. I wasn’t at all confident he’d make good on his promise, after so many disappointments, but you know. One lives in hope.”

“Rufus - “

“The way I saw it, I couldn’t lose. If Avalanche scuppered the launch, my position on the board would be immeasurably strengthened, and if they failed me yet again, I’d be no worse off than I was before.”

“His people tampered with the oxygen tanks. You passed them the entry codes for the restricted area. How did you do that?”

“He gave me a phone number and I called him from the private line in Dad’s apartment. You don’t monitor that.”

“It’s only by sheer chance the rocket didn’t topple over when the ignition sequence was shut down. Dozens of people could have died. Hundreds.”

“That rocket wasn’t fit to launch even before Avalanche touched it. The whole thing was rushed and half-baked because Dad was impatient to put on his big show. If Cid Highwind had managed to get off the ground, he’d be dead now. And yes, I agree - it’s chilling to think of how many might have died if our rocket had fallen onto Midgar or Junon. Or Wutai. Can you imagine? The war would have broken out all over again. I have zero regrets about the rocket launch, Tseng. My intervention turned what could have been a major catastrophe into a relatively minor humiliation. And you know what was the best thing? No possibility of a cover-up. Dad invited over a thousand guests. They all saw his cherished space program collapse in front of their very eyes. Tens of millions watched the television broadcast. There was no way Dad could pretend it hadn’t happened.”


	31. Chapter 31

“You wanted him publicly humiliated,” says Tseng.

“I played fair, Tseng. I warned him. Repeatedly. I told him to cancel the launch. To the surprise of no one, he didn’t listen. It never once crossed his mind his precious rocket launch might be a colossal flop. I warned you, too. Don’t you remember what I said to you before the launch? About Dad?”

I’d been following Tseng around the pre-launch party - not an easy thing to do, when he was on duty and I was meant to be schmoozing our guests and creating photo opportunities - but I kept my eye on him. I observed Madeleine Fortescue slipping him her phone number. I saw the look he gave her. Someone who didn’t know him might think he was keeping a smooth professional demeanour. I saw the layers of contempt. I fought my way through the crowd to him. He found some excuse to get rid of Hunter, who’d been assigned to my security, and let me stay. We stood side by side. Our guests would have assumed he was guarding me. In fact, I was guarding him.

“You said many things that day, Rufus.”

“I told you I wanted him to die. I _told_ you. I said, ‘why can’t he hurry up and die’?”

He frowns. It’s coming back to him, and he doesn’t like it. “I remember…”

“And do you remember what you said in reply? Did you tell me I was terrible son for harbouring such thoughts? No. Did you tell me the President’s untimely demise would be a disaster for us all? No. You told me I shouldn’t say such things in public. _In public_. Remember?”

“I remember you informed me I’d never amount to anything.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“ ‘The eternal second fiddle’, you called me.”

“I did not!” Did I?

“You were being offensive to everyone that day. You told Reeve he was a frivolous person. You called your father a hypocrite to his face a few minutes later. And you were very rude to that poor _Loveless_ actress.”

Oh, her. Yes. I’d forgotten her. How is it I’ve forgotten and he remembers?

She was lying in wait for me when we moved on to the launch viewing area. Dad must have assigned her the seat next to mine. She batted her eyelashes and heaved her bosom; it was obvious she’d been given her orders. Failure is not an option! I don’t think I was rude to her. I tried to be polite. It wasn’t her fault. She was certainly very beautiful. I’m sure he had her first. There you go, son, I’ve test-driven her for you, keys in the ignition and all…

Tseng was standing at the back of the viewing platform, behind the rows of seats, watching the absurd interplay between myself and this unfortunate young woman. He knew as well as I did why she had been put there. I turned to meet his eye. I was trying to send him a message: _How much longer must we live like this?_

Dad’s death would mean his freedom as much as my own. More than ever, now Veld’s gone.

And now his phone is ringing. Of course it is. I wonder if it ever occurs to him not to answer. Answering is a reflex, a habit. Refusing to answer would be a conscious choice.

“Reno, what? Hmm. Hmm. Yes. I see. In Utgar. That’s a long way from anywhere. And they’re not positive about the ID? Hmm. Are there visuals? CCTV? That’s unlucky. All right, even if it turns out to be false, it’s worth investigating. I need to see the report first; I’ll come now. Tell despatch to prepare a helicopter. You’re going with me.”

He closes the phone. “Rufus, you’ll have to excuse me.”

“What dark deeds are being done in Utgar?”

“A woman matching Felicia’s description was seen disembarking from a fishing boat.” He’s standing up, putting the phone away.

“Do you need to check it out in person?” He doesn’t need to. But if it really is Elfé - which it almost certainly isn’t - Veld won’t be far behind. He has to see with his own eyes, he has to be sure.

“I’ll brief you when I get back.” He’s already on his feet, turning for the door.

Wait. Wait. Did he just say what I think he said? Did he just offer to keep me in the loop? “Tseng - “ He’s at the door, it’s opening - “Be careful.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Rufus.”

_Swish-thunk._

What did I have to say that for? _Be careful_. He’s always careful. It’s his job. Veld beat down all the recklessness and wild magic in him...

Yes, but even the most careful person can have an accident. In the back of my mind - No, that’s a cliché. This feeling isn’t at the back of my mind. It’s more essential than that. I’ve liberated myself from all my other fears, but this one… If this last one, this one remaining fear, this fear that he won’t come back, if it dried up, I’d be dead inside. Yet I can’t give in to it either. I’d embarrass myself. And him. Which wouldn’t help either of us. He has to do his job.

Chin up, Rufus old chap. Keep that upper lip steady and let nobody guess what you’re feeling.

So, Cat, it’s just you and me again.

It’s true, you know. I’m not afraid of anything else, not any more. Dad’s afraid. He fears failure; the rocket launch taught me that. It’s probably one of the biggest differences between us. His story has been one of uninterrupted ascent to ever greater power, and there’s this unspoken assumption, which I have subconsciously absorbed but am consciously battling, that all the narratives of Shinra men should follow the same trajectory. In our family, success must be untainted by failure. Lazard fell for it: he cut and ran after encountering his first major setback (me, Cat). What was going through his mind? _Oh no, a failure, it’s all over now_?

I _despise_ people who wallow in regrets_. _ _Sorry, so sorry, so very very sorry_ \- who wants to keep hearing that? It would be different if there were any way to undo our mistakes. Bring the dead to life. _Give me back my son_. Of course I wish I could. You can wish your life away wallowing in regrets. Drowning in regrets. It won’t change anything. That’s my purpose, isn’t it? That’s why I’m here. To change things. To do better. Better than my old man. Better than my old self. If I can’t even do that, then what am I good for? I might as well go crawl into the grave alongside Alex and Mercedes.

But, Cat, there’s one thing I don’t regret and never will: sabotaging the rocket launch. It was the right thing to do. Pragmatically _and_ morally. Nobody died. Cid Highwind didn’t blow up in mid-orbit. We won’t be squandering any more money or resources on the space program. Uncle Roland in a fit of spitefulness tried to get the board to censure Captain Highwind; he said Highwind knew the oxygen tanks were faulty. I told Uncle Roland to back off. Highwind had already lost his dream. There was no need to heap insult on injury.

Uncle Roland couldn’t find a seconder for his motion. They all knew I was against it. My star was in the ascendant. And Dad… I thought at least _he_ would oppose me, on principle if nothing else. But it was as if he couldn’t muster the energy. The rocket fiasco rocked him to his very foundations, Cat. He’d been wrong and I’d been right; this time _he_ was the loser and he just couldn’t wrap his fat head around it. _Come on, old man,_ I thought, _this isn’t the end. Get back on your feet and fight me_. It’s really rather pathetic to curl up and die the moment things start going wrong, don’t you think?

Once or twice he fell asleep in the middle of meetings. I began to wonder if he was ill; that is, if nature had taken over the contract I’d made with Avalanche, and would soon fulfil it.

You know what I was like, Cat? When this all started? I was like an ignorant little child who finds a summons materia lying in the grass and, not knowing its power, starts playing with it. And he summons Bahamut. And for a little while, this dangerous new game seems wonderful, thrilling, exhilarating. But instead of fading back into the ether like a good summons should, this Bahamut just won’t fucking _leave_. He keeps coming back and back and back to haunt me...

I should have thrown the materia away. I had opportunities. I didn’t do it. That’s on me.

After the successful scuppering of the rocket launch, I knew Fuhito would find a way to strike against me. Waiting for him to make his move was like sitting tied to a chair in a locked room, listening to a nearby timebomb counting down the seconds, tick, tick, tick. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The OC town of Utgar has been borrowed, with permission, from the_moss_stomper's wonderfully atmospheric Reno/Cissnei fic, Fragile Fantasies, on this site: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20192920/chapters/47846071


	32. Chapter 32

Here am I in my chair, there he in his, with the interrogation table between us and Cat draped across my shoulders, purring. He’s brought tea and coffee and biscuits. He has just sat down.

“So,” I say, “How was Utgar?”

“A waste of time.”

“I’m sorry.”

He shrugs. He had no real expectations. “With the benefit of hindsight,” he says, “Seventy-five per cent of what we do is a waste of time. But you can’t know which leads are worth pursuing until you check them out.”

“Don’t call it a waste of time, then. Call it a process of elimination.”

He’s doing that thing again, looking down as he smiles, turning his face away just a fraction. Is he aware that he does this? I could write the book on the taxonomy of his smiles. There are numerous sub-species, but just two main orders: his working, Turk smile, the one that pins you down or nails you to the wall. _Gotcha._ He looks you in the eye when he smiles like that. And then there’s this other kind of smile, his private smile, the one he subconsciously doesn’t want anyone to see.

He says, “That cat seems to like you.”

“He does, doesn’t he? I often wonder what he really thinks of me, in his cat mind.”

Tseng laughs. “You wonder what a _cat_ thinks of you?” His laugh is like a cough. An indulgent chuckle. My flights of fancy have always amused him. They strike a chord somewhere deep inside his secret self, those parts of him Veld had no use for, which it gives me such delight to coax forth.

“Of course. I wonder what name he’s given me in his cat lexicon. Am I ‘warm perch’? Am I ‘friendly lap’? Am I ‘scratch-giver’?”

“Do cats have a word for friend?”

Ooof, my heart! If by some remote unlikely chance anyone ever asked me _why him?,_ I would say _\- _well, I would say _just look at him, is that not the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen_? But that’s not the reason. He’s always been the one who just_ gets_ it. He gets me. And he indulges me. He _enters in_. When he lets go of what he considers to be his duty - namely, to teach me my guilt - he understands me as no one else has ever done.

“I’m not sure cats entertain the concept of friendship,” I say. “Probably he calls me ‘mine’.”

“Yours?”

“His. I’m his._”_

“His what?”

“Just _his_.”

“Ah. Our feline overlords.” He’s reaching for his coffee.

“Better than some I could think of,” I say, “Maybe we should make _him_ President. He’s absolutely on board with the program. Purring your doubts and anxieties away. Everything we do, we do for belly scritches. And extra cream on our tuna - “

“Rufus.” He sets down his mug. “We need to talk about Corel.”

Damn. _Damn_. I knew it was too good to last.

Do we, though? Really? Why do we need to talk about Corel? We were both there, we know what happened. Avalanche occupied the reactor, Tseng and his team flew off to stop them, I flew after them to intervene, Veld followed hot on my heels to prevent me exposing myself. And we all failed. They couldn’t stop Avalanche from blowing up the reactor. Aviva couldn’t save herself from falling into the mako. Veld couldn’t protect my secret. I couldn’t keep my spinning plates aloft any longer…

There’s nothing I can tell him about what went down at Corel that he doesn’t know already. So why do we need to talk about it?

He wants to find out why I did it. Why I said it. What _possessed_ me.

“At the time,” he says, “You told me Avalanche had occupied the reactor without your knowledge or permission. I want to believe you, but your version of events doesn’t fit the timeline. You took - you commandeered a helicopter by forcing the crew out at gunpoint, and set off for Corel several hours before the executive memorandum was issued, which means several hours before anyone outside this department should have known about the mission. If Fuhito didn’t tell you, then who did?”

“Aviva.”

“Aviva?” His eyebrows are practically in his hairline.

“I heard the helicopters scrambling. I was coming upstairs to the landing pad to ask what was happening, and I bumped into Aviva. She blurted it out. Of course she shouldn’t have told me, but she didn’t know that. Because Veld chose to - “

“We’re not talking about Veld. We’re talking about you. What did you think you were going to achieve, rushing off to Corel like that? Did you think you could order Avalanche to stand down, and they’d obey you?”

“More or less, yes.”

“You didn’t think Fuhito might try to kill you?”

“That was a risk I had to take. What alternative did I have? Stand back and let you handle everything while I sat in Dad’s tower with my fingers crossed hoping Fuhito didn’t breathe a word to incriminate me?”

Hah! The smile is back. He’s turning his face away. “Well, no,” he says. “That would be completely out of character for you, wouldn’t it?”

“Thank you for realising it.”

“What was your plan?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t - “

“You didn’t have a plan? That’s not like you.”

“No. I mean… I had my shotgun, but… I suppose my plan was to talk to Fuhito. Reason with him. The immediate goal was to persuade him to avoid a confrontation with you. If I could have persuaded him to withdraw from the reactor, I could have persuaded him to meet with me privately. Maybe in Junon? No, Armiger wouldn’t have stood for that. Maybe at the farm. And then, I could have found a way to eliminate him myself…”

I’m making this up as I go along, and he knows it. He says, “You were afraid you’d be exposed - “

“I was afraid he’d kill you!”

Shit. Shit. Fuck. Didn’t mean to let that out. Shit.

Does he believe me? He _has_ to believe me, surely. He knows when I’m lying and when I’m telling the truth.

He’s leaning back in his chair, one arm resting on the table, contemplating me. He’s not a finger-drummer, he doesn’t fidget when he’s thinking. He knows I meant what I said just now. He’s trying to square my outburst with the known facts of the case. Reconcile the irreconcilable. Can’t be done.

“What do you mean, Rufus?”

What does he mean, what do_ I_ mean? Were my words unclear? What part of _I don’t want you to die_ is mystifying to him?

The cat has stopped purring.

Tseng says, “I’m confused. Weren’t you hoping Avalanche would kill us?”

Ah. The ambiguity of ‘you’. I was afraid he would kill _you. _Such an inadequate pronoun. Plural, or singular? You-all, or just you in particular, only you?

I want to tell him the truth. But what if he doesn’t believe me?

Well, so what if he doesn’t? The truth is the truth whether he believes me or not.

“Because,” he says, “I distinctly remember you ordering Fuhito to kill us all.”

Yes, I said that. _Kill them all. But not Tseng_. He can’t have forgotten those last three words.

The rest of them will never forget.

And there goes the cat, leaping down from my shoulders as if I’ve suddenly become a bed of nails.

“Why would you tell him to kill us if you didn’t want him to kill us? How do you explain that, Rufus?”

There’s no escape for me this time.

Or - no, wait - maybe there is. “Tseng, if you are labouring under the impression that it was my intention from the very beginning to - to eliminate this department, then I have to tell you that you could not be more wrong. How would it benefit me to get rid of the Turks? You’ve always been my - my - “

“Friends?”

I can’t quite read his tone. Does he mean, _we’ve been like friends to you and look how you repaid us_? Or does he mean, _how could you think we were your friends? We’re professionals -_

Let’s go with a less loaded term. “You’ve always been my allies.”

“I’m pleased you see you understand that. Better late than never.”

“No, no, I’ve always known - “

Aviva, lending me her shoulder when we left Hughie’s party. Hunter, reminding me that friends protect each other. Rosalind, patience personified, teaching me to shoot straight. Reno, breaking all the rules to give me a birthday present worth remembering. Cissnei, rolling condoms on a cucumber. Hand, fork, stab. _You’re a hot property, V.P. They’ll wanna fuck with you. Don’t let them fuck with you._ Rude silently propping me up when I went back to the Lomo’s house to say good-bye to Alex; Tseng, letting me rest my head against his arm in the car after the funeral; Tseng coming to my school prize-giving, Tseng carrying me in from the garden, Tseng holding my blackbird in his cupped hands, helping me set it free -

He’s watching me. Can he see what I’m thinking?

“I’ve fucked it all up,” I say. “Haven’t I?”

His look says, _now you get it? Now?_

I knew it before. Now, _now_ I’m feeling it. Nauseous, suddenly. A little light-headed. Unsteady. I’m staring at him. My eyes are clinging to him. _Help me._ Pull me out of this quicksand. “Tseng - “

He rubs a hand down his face. He doesn’t want to get angry with me, but I wish he would. If he got angry, I could get angry, and if I could get angry I could stop feeling like this.

“Rufus, why - “

“Because I’m stupid. I’m stupid, Tseng. I’m stupid and I did a stupid thing. Getting involved with Avalanche was the biggest mistake of my life. Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Why did you tell Fuhito to kill us?”

“Because of Veld - “

His eyes darken. “Don’t you dare.”

“No, please, listen. I’m not blaming him. It’s because he turned up. If he hadn’t followed me to the reactor, I could have managed the situation.”

“Hah!” A snort of utter disbelief.

“I’m not saying I _would_ have. I’m saying I _could _have. The situation hadn’t passed the point of no return. I couldn’t find Fuhito, the reactor was empty, no sign of Avalanche anywhere, and then you came in, saw me, and immediately jumped to the conclusion that I’d followed you for the sheer thrill of it.”

“What else was I supposed to think?”

“No, it was good, I was happy for you to think that. You told me to go home. Remember? You said the reactor was too dangerous for me. When you said that, I thought _that’s the way to do it, I’ll make him take me home - _“

“One of the others would have taken you home, not me.”

“I could have ordered you to take me home. I could have ordered you all to leave the reactor. I could have, I don’t know, told you I’d found a booby-trap, or a bomb - The point is, I still had options. Then Veld walked in - “

He’s nodding. “The Commander told us to arrest you. I didn’t understand -”

“The moment I saw him, I knew he knew. I knew it was all over for me. He was going to tell you. I tried to run for it - “

“He was shouting for us to catch you - “

“There was nowhere to run. But I tried anyway. I knew what would happen to me if you caught me. You’d drag me back to prison - “

“Prison?”

“And it would be a million times worse than before because I’d had a glimpse of freedom. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t. And then Avalanche appeared - “

“Rufus, back up a little. What did you mean, drag you _back_ to prison? What prison?”

“This. Here. Midgar. Shinra. My life.”

“You think your life is a _prison_?”

“Isn’t it?”

There’s scorn in his eyes, as well as exasperation for my dramatics. “You don’t have the first idea what a real prison is like.”

“Don’t I? Guarded day and night. Constantly watched. No possibility of escape. Never allowed to stir a step without asking for permission first. My every word, my every deed, my every fucking _thought_ reported and filed in triplicate. Don’t tell me I don’t know about prisons. This prison I’m in now is no different from the prison I was in before. In fact I prefer this prison. At least we can call it what it is. Nobody has to pretend any more that I’m the luckiest boy in the world.”

“Are you saying that’s why you told Fuhito to kill us? Because you didn’t want to come back to Midgar?”

“No! Yes, in a way. But that’s not how it was. I wasn’t thinking clearly. You had me cornered. Everything I’d worked so hard and so long for was slipping away from me, turning to dust, wasted, all the money, wasted, all the lives, Mercedes’s life, wasted, all because of you, my jailers, thwarting me at every turn, blindly following the old man’s orders and never stopping to ask yourself why, why are we doing this, why do things have to be this way, and I - I - I don’t know how to explain it so you’ll understand - but, suddenly, it was as if _you_, all of you, stood for everything I hate about my old man. He wasn’t there; you were. Standing in my way…”

I have to stop. I’m out of breath.

He seems to be thinking about what I’ve said. At least he hasn’t jumped straight to telling me why I’m wrong, or how annoying my self-pity is. That’s progress.

“Rufus, you said, ‘Kill them all, but not Tseng.’” He’s not looking at me. He’s looking at a spot on the wall off to my right.

“Yes.”

“Why?”

If he doesn’t know why, it’s because he doesn’t want to.

Fortunately for both our sakes I have a perfectly plausible explanation up my sleeve. “I’ve known you all my life, Tseng. Of course your name would be the first that sprang to mind.”

“The others were in your way, but I wasn’t?”

“What do you _want_ from me? I fucked up. I admit it. I’m _sorry_, Tseng. You, I mean all of you, you treated me like one of your own, you all did your best to look out for me and I - I took it for granted because I was a little shit. Just like my old man. I was acting just like my old man. Do you think I’m proud of that? I treated you, all of you, like _things_. You’re not things. You’re people. My people -“

He’s frowning. “_Your_ people?”

“No - I mean, I’m _your_ people. I could have been a Turk, in another life. You know I could.”

“You are not a Turk, Rufus.”

“But if my life had been different, I could have been.”

He leans forward. “Listen to me. If you were a Turk, you wouldn’t be sitting here now. You’d be rotting in the wastelands. I’d have taken you there and shot you myself, and it wouldn’t have made any difference to me that I’d known you all your life. You seem to think you deserve some sort of credit for ordering Avalanche to kill us and then changing your mind ten seconds later, and that makes me think that even now, even after everything you’ve said, you don’t fully understand what it is you’ve done. Commander Veld dedicated his life to building this support network for you, and in one afternoon, with a few thoughtless words, you blew it apart. There’s a chasm running through it now, with you on one side and everyone else on the other.”

My heart’s beating so fast. Everything he says is true. I set this department on fire. Veld made it for me and I burnt it to the ground. Just like Dad.

“You saved my life,” I say. Now that I think about it, really _think_, it seems extraordinary. Why did they do that? Really, why? There was I shouting _kill them all_ at Fuhito, and Fuhito shouting to his men _kill the Vice-President, _and these people, my Turks, made a shield of their own bodies and got me out alive, and that’s why Aviva fell into the mako, because she was bringing up the rear, making sure the little shit who owed her his life got out safely. I did. She didn’t. 

“Not just me,” says Tseng.

“I know that. I meant all of you. You all saved my life.”

Reno would say _hey, don’t thank us, we’re paid top gil for this_, but it’s not about the money. They could have abandoned me and saved themselves. They chose not to. And they’d do the same again today, even though they hate me now. If this tower were on fire, they’d get me out or die trying. They would walk off this world, surrender their own existence so that mine could continue. What kind of people _do_ that? And for me. For _me. _“Am I worth it?” Is _anybody?_

“Well” says Tseng, “I think that’s for us to decide.”

I feel… What _is_ this feeling? Not ashamed, exactly; not humiliated. I know those feelings. This is different. Humbled? Do I sound humble? What does humble sound like? Hard to tell. This is why I prefer a simple unambiguous punch to the face. It makes the same point Tseng’s trying to make, and it doesn’t expect a reply.

“Tseng - “

“Yes?”

“Do you remember the time Lazard wanted the board to pass a vote of thanks to Reno and Aviva for saving Dad’s life? It was after the first attack on Junon. Dad vetoed it. Do you remember what he said? ‘If you expect me to thank my employees for doing their damn job, you’ve got another think coming.’ Remember?”

“I remember.”

“I don’t want to be like that.”

“I know.”

“Don’t let me be like him.”

“You are not like him.”

“But I am. I think I am. I’m a wrecking ball. I’ve ruined _everything_.”

That look on his face. He - what the fuck? God damn him, he’s trying not to laugh. How? Why? This isn’t funny. Is he laughing at _me_?

“Sometimes,” he says, “I forget how young you are. You haven’t ruined everything, Rufus. The situation isn’t hopeless. We can fix it.. But it will take time. And you’ll need to work for it.”

“We?”

I’m picturing him straddling the deep chasm, the smouldering ruin, one foot on their side, one on mine, holding out his hand to me, straining to pull us back together.

“Listen - “ he’s leaning forward again, “At Corel, that night, after the explosion, when we were on the hillside, before the Commander left… He spoke to me about you. He said there was a lot that was bad in you, but a lot worth saving too.”

Veld again. Veld’s words. This is not what I want from him.

“We think you’re worth saving, Rufus.”

“And the others? Do they agree with you?” Why am I even asking? I know they do. Why else would they put so much effort into beating me into shape? Turk redemption. I’m asking for the sake of something to say.

“You represent the future of Shinra - “

If he would just lay his hand over my hand. Pat me on the shoulder. Let me rest my head against his arm…

“We’re not going to throw you away. We have too much invested in you.”

I want that back. What I had. What I’ve lost.

“What do I do now, Tseng?”

“Regain their trust.”

“How?”

“Slowly. It’s not going to be easy. ”

“Everything I’ve told you is the truth.”

“Yes, probably.”

I shouldn’t have told Dad about Veld and Elfé. Why did I do that? Out of meanness, out of spite, because I’d been thwarted. Just like Dad. And what did I gain? The old fox was gone; what more did I want? Imagine if, instead of putting the knife in, I’d kept the secret? Imagine how far that would have gone towards redeeming me in their eyes. In Tseng’s eyes.

I say, “If you don’t believe me, I understand.”

“I do believe you. Your story has been consistent. You haven’t told any lies that I’m aware of. There are certain things you’ve refused to tell us, but you’ve been upfront about that. And also, Rufus - “ He breathes in, holds it, breathes out, not quite a sigh - “It’s exhausting to keep doubting you all the time.”

And now his phone is ringing. Of course it is. Can they not leave us in peace for one hour? Is that so much to ask?

“Tseng here. Mr President?” He sounds surprised. “Good afternoon, sir. Yes, we got back - “ he checks his watch - “An hour and twenty minutes ago. Yes, sir, we found the woman. But I’m afraid it wasn’t her.”

Wait, wait. Does this mean Dad doesn’t know yet that Utgar was a wash-out?

“No, sir, I didn’t call you - “

Tseng came to me first? Me before Dad? 

“Sir, I didn’t think it worth interrupting your golf game over a false alarm - “

To be first with the news that there’s no news is only a small thing, but even so…

“I didn’t expect you to be back so soon, sir.” Dad’s shouting now. I can hear his angry, tinny voice. Tseng turns towards me, muffling the speaker with his hand. “Rain stopped play,” he whispers. “That’s too bad, sir,” he says into the phone. “You were looking forward to it.”

Does Dad know Tseng’s here with me?

“Yes, sir, I have photos. Yes, of course I understand you need to see the proof with your own eyes. I’ll come right up. Yes, sir. Immediately.”

He closes the phone and puts it in his pocket. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he says.

“It’s all right. Go.”

The door hisses shut behind him. I’ll wait for a minute to make sure he isn’t coming back. I’ll close the curtains while I’m waiting.

He’s left half his coffee. It isn’t even cold yet. Black, no sugar. Hardcore caffeine. When he lifts the mug to his mouth, he holds it like a gun, trigger finger hooked through the handle, thumb braced along the top, like this. I’ll touch my lips to the place where his lips touched. My imagination detects a little residual body-heat. I could finish it for him, but I don’t like coffee. It’s not the bitterness. Coffee tastes burnt.

I wonder. Just how deep does his loyalty to my old man lie?

Not as deep as his loyalty to Veld. I understand that, but does Dad? Is that why Dad’s demanding to see proof that the woman in Utgar wasn’t Elfé? He wouldn’t have appointed Tseng as head of the Turks if he didn’t trust him. He wouldn’t have ordered Tseng to find and kill Veld if he didn’t believe Tseng would obey him. Unless he derives some sort of sadistic pleasure from watching Tseng squirm on the horns of this dilemma, which would be… Not surprising at all.

Why does Tseng stay? Veld’s gone. Tseng could go too. He doesn’t have to stay here taking ever-more-insane orders from Dad and pretending to hunt down the man he loves like a father. Why doesn’t he pack his bags and go grab his slum angel and run off with her somewhere Dad will never find them? If anyone knows some good places to hide, he does.

What’s keeping him here, in Midgar, in Shinra? Is it the others, Veld’s legacy? They’ve only stayed because he stayed. In their hearts they wanted to follow Veld. If he left, they’d go with him. They’d melt away into the world’s shadows, never to be seen again.

Is it me? Am _I_ the reason he can’t leave? Of course it goes without saying that he’s committed to what I represent: Shinra’s brighter tomorrow that’s always just around the corner; Commander Veld’s life’s work, which I’ve so thoroughly vandalised. He wants to save it if he can. He’s made that clear. But…

He beat me half to death for being a stupid treacherous fuck-up. He wouldn’t have done that, he wouldn’t have dirtied his hands on me, if he didn’t care.

I can make him laugh. Sometimes the laughter is at me, and sometimes deservedly so, but sometimes he’s laughing with me. And even when he’s laughing at me, his laughter isn’t unkind. Before all this happened, he used to quite like me, as a person. I felt he did. We had some interesting conversations, when I wasn’t lying to him. He respected my mind, my ideas. I never received the impression I bored him. At any rate, he made time for me. He let me hang out in his office. In some way, he approved of me. That’s gone now, of course, but… Despite everything, I think he’s glad I’m still alive, here, with him.

He has always been in my life, and I have always been in his. Before he was Aerith Gast’s, he was mine. I know him; he knows me. He knows everything I’ve done, and yet he doesn’t hate me, though I have given him every reason to. Whereas she has given him none...

What if I’ve been wrong about her too, all this time? I’ve never thought of it like that before. That she’s not the one dividing his loyalties. I am.


	33. Chapter 33

Look at this front cover, Cat. In its own exuberant twisted way, the _Midgar Howler_ is a work of genius. Ninety-nine per cent pure invention and one hundred per cent entertainment. It was banned at Penscombe - brain rot, Wiley called it - so we used to read it under the covers after lights out. I didn’t know until I joined the board that it’s written and produced by our own PR department. I also didn’t know, until Tseng told me yesterday, that the editor of this other one here, the _War Gong_, is on the Turks’ payroll. I thought it was a real underground resistance press, like the one Mercedes’ Avalanche friends ran out of the cellar below the Blue Griffin bar. It looks like genuine zamizdat. Flimsy yellow paper. Cheap ink - no, don’t sniff it. You’ll smudge your nose.

I wonder what kind of style she’d have created for our literary magazine. When it came to her art she always put herself down, but Alex said she was getting really good at graphic design.

I have quite a stack of papers here, don’t I? Tseng brings them to me. The _Midgar Times_, the _Evening Star_, the Shinra-authorised _Leviathan_ for me to practise my Wuteng on, the weekend glossies - look, here’s a photo of me delivering food aid to an anonymous village somewhere in eastern Mideel. I did that last week, apparently. I lead a very busy fictional life, Cat. The Vice-President’s never in one place long enough for anyone to get a clear look at him.

She’d have a good laugh at my expense if she could see this. _Definitely_ inauthentic.

I need to ask him. I can’t keep putting it off forever.

I was afraid he would stop coming to see me so often once I told him what he wanted to know. It’s been three weeks since we talked about Corel, and he’s still showing up every day, at what I assume is tea-time, with tea and biscuits and the papers, and we chat. I could set my watch by him, if I had one. It seems I’ve become a habit with him.

The longer I put it off, the harder it’s going to be.

We talk about what’s going on in the world. We discuss the books I’m reading. The day after our talk about Corel, he asked me which books I wanted from the library. _Surprise me_, I said, so now twice a week Rude brings me a new pile. Here’s one I’ve just started: ‘Designing the Electric City’, by our very own Reeve Tuesti. I ought to know more about urban planning. I _definitely_ need to learn more about how Reeve’s mind works.

Right after it happened, with everything else that was going on, I put it in a box and shoved it to the back of the shelf, where I could avoid looking at it. Now, I can’t stop thinking about it. I need to know. Nothing he can tell me could be worse than some of the things I imagine. I’m going to ask him today, Cat. I’ve made up my mind. Bite the bullet.

I think I’ll run on the treadmill for a while.

.

Here he comes, carrying a tea-tray, the papers tucked under his arm. It’s a good thing the door is automatic. I put my book down. I wasn’t reading it anyway. We’ve graduated from the interrogation table: I have two old armchairs from Dad’s apartment and a rug and a coffee table now. He puts the tray on the coffee table, lays the papers down, hands me my mug, and sits, adjusting his cuffs. The yellow glow from my standard lamp puts highlights in his hair.

“Interesting?” he asks, gesturing at Reeve’s book.

Ask him, Rufus. Say it. Say it now. “Tseng - “

“Yes?”

But how? What words? “I’ve been thinking...“

“Thinking is good.”

Is it? “About Mercedes. And Pia. How - I mean, who - “

“Was it me? Is that what you want to know?” He sounds as if he’s been waiting for this question.

“Was it?”

“Rufus - “ His voice is so gentle. We’re talking about this - thing - and his voice is _so gentle_. “Are you sure you want to know?”

I’m not sure. My fingernails are digging into my palms. “Yes.”

“It wasn’t me.”

That’s the answer I wanted. Can I believe him? I think so. We’ve come a long way from the time when he hid unpalatable truths from me. He knows I’m not a child any more.

He says, “Nobody from head office was involved in that mission. Charlie ran them both, the Wutai mission and the Gandara mission, out of Junon. I knew nothing about them. Until I talked to Charlie after your arrest, I believed the Commander’s version of events.”

“That their yacht exploded by accident? Tseng, even I didn’t believe that.”

“That’s the official story. He told me something different. He said the Barazzas had taken a hit out on Eddie Gandara.”

“The Barazzas from Costa del Sol?”

“Eddie’s business was failing. He was up to his eyeballs in debt. He made some bad choices. Relied on some people who weren’t reliable.”

“Is that really true? Armiger said nothing to me. She would have known.”

His face - his shadowed eyes - There’s something he’s not telling me. What?

“She will have had her reasons,” he says. “What I’m saying is that I had no reason to doubt the Commander’s story. He said we needed to keep the truth out of the papers. He didn’t want you to find out they’d been murdered. That’s what he told me.

“Rufus - “ leaning forward, tonal shift - “I think you understand why Commander Veld gave that mission to Charlie, don’t you? It was for your sake. He kept us out of it because he didn’t want us to know what you’d done. But what you may not understand is that he also did it for our sakes. He knew we’d find it… That we would be… Reluctant. We all knew those girls. They were your friends. Mercedes wasn’t much more than a child. No one likes those jobs. Charlie was the best choice because he didn’t know them personally.”

This is exactly as hard to hear as I anticipated. But I can’t turn back now. “How - What did he - “

“Are you sure you want me to tell you?”

“Did they suffer?”

“Do you want me to tell you they didn’t suffer?”

Of course I do. But I wouldn’t believe him. “I want the truth.

“All I can tell you is what Charlie told me. The day before the news about our mission in Wutai went public, the Commander gave him the order to arrest the entire family. He went to their house, but it was empty, except for the servants. Pia must have told her family to clear out.”

“I don’t understand why she would do that. Her parents weren’t involved with Avalanche. They knew nothing about it.”

“You can’t be sure of that. In any case, whether they were or they weren’t, the Commander couldn’t take the risk. Pia was an intelligent girl, she’ll have understood that. They split up; Pia went north, her parents went south. One of Charlie’s people caught up with her in Utgar, just as she was about to board a freighter to Wutai. They brought her back to Junon and Charlie questioned her. He says she was cooperative. Then he made her call her parents - “

_Made her_? How - No -

“He spoke to them. He offered them a deal. Immunity in return for cooperation.”

“Surely they realised he was lying.”

“Possibly. Possibly they chose to believe him. Going on the run takes skill. The Gandaras were out of their depth. Driving round the country backroads in their big town car. They hadn’t even changed the plates.”

“Where was Mercedes?”

“She was with June and Eddie. They hadn’t taken her back to school. Charlie told them to meet him and Pia at their yacht in Condor Bay. Once they were all on the yacht, he shot them in the head.”

In the head. Mercedes’ head of wild curls. They were green when I first met her. Mercedes in history class leaning so far over to whisper in my ear that her head rested on my shoulder, her curls tickling my cheek. Dr Braska barked at her. _Taking a nap, Miss Gandara?_ Mercedes bending over me in the darkened cinema, my fingers tangled in her hair -

“Rufus? Shall I go on?”

Did the Legend put them in separate cabins? Or were they all together? Did he tie them up? Did he cover their heads? With pillowcases or, or - They must have known what was going to happen to them. Did they cry? Did they beg? Was it quick? I hope it was quick. Who went first? I hope it was Mercedes.

“Rufus, are you all right?”

I’m being ridiculous. What’s the use of getting sentimental? They’re gone now. This is our world, I am who I am, this is how it is. You have to be hard to survive. You have to be hard. You can’t let your heart bleed. You’ll end up like Lazard.

“Go on, Tseng.”

“Charlie sailed their yacht out to sea for a couple of kilometers and set the explosives. His own people picked him up.”

“What about the crew?”

“It was January; they were on shore leave.”

“Veld told me the crew - that the crew too - “ 

“He wanted you to believe it was an accident. A yacht wouldn’t normally put to sea without its crew.”

“So the crew aren’t dead?” Why do I feel so relieved? I don’t even know these people. “But Tseng, wouldn’t it seem bizarre to the crew that the Gandaras had put to sea without them? Didn’t they ask questions?”

“You’d be surprised how rarely people ask questions. They received very good severance cheques. They’ve all moved on to new jobs.”

Something’s wrong with this story. It’s not the crew’s lack of curiosity about the fate of their employers; that doesn’t really surprise me. There’s something off about the whole sequence of events. Mercedes’ father was one of Dad’s golfing buddies. Maybe that’s why he was willing to believe Veld would cut him a deal? Veld wouldn’t have eliminated Mr and Mrs Gandara without obtaining Dad’s consent first. Dad ordered their deaths; that’s obvious. But why? Why would he tell Veld to arrest _the entire family_, if all he knew, at the time he gave the order, was that their two girls were mixed up with Avalanche?

I’ve always assumed Pia or Mercedes gave my name to the Legend after they were arrested, but that can’t have been how it happened. Dad must have known about my involvement with Avalanche _before_ he gave the order to have the entire family put out of the way. That’s why he and Veld came up with the exploding yacht scenario and then lied about it to Tseng. That’s why Mr and Mrs Gandara had to die along with their daughters: because their daughters might have told them about me. The whole operation must have been planned and ready to roll before Dad announced the success of the Legend’s mission to Wutai. That elaborate charade with the yacht was staged for the benefit of one person: me. Dad knew what I’d done, and he didn’t want me to find out that he knew. 

Pia and Mercedes understood that anyone who linked me to Avalanche would be sentencing themselves to death. They would have kept their lips sealed - at least, until they realised they had nothing left to lose. The decision to silence them was taken before they were arrested. Dad and Veld knew they knew about me. If they didn’t tell him, then who did?

“Rufus,” says Tseng, “What are you thinking?”

“Was it Fuhito?” It must have been him. He’s the only logical possibility.

“What?”

“Is that how Dad knew? Did Fuhito tell the Legend about me?” Boasting that he held the heir to Shinra in the palm of his hand. Signing Mercedes’ death warrant.

He’s hesitating. “I don’t know.” His eyes give the lie to his words.

“Yes you do.” Of course it’s Fuhito. Who else could it be? Veld’s daughter? The bandit Shears? I never set eyes on them before Corel.

“You’re right,” he says, “Good guess. It was Fuhito.”

No. I’m wrong. He’s still lying. He knows who it is and he doesn’t want to tell me. Why not? What difference can it make now?

“Who was it, Tseng?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Tell me!”

“I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Were you ordered not to tell me?”

“Charlie said - “

Wait. Charlie, the Legend. Bureau chief, Junon Office. There is one person -

No. No, that’s not possible. It wasn’t her. It couldn’t be. She would never. “It wasn’t Armiger.”

His face says it’s true and he wishes it wasn’t.

“I don’t believe you.” I’m shouting.

“I’m sorry, Rufus.”

“No. No. It’s not true. You’re lying. It was Fuhito.”

“It was Mrs Armiger.”

How can I believe that? He’s still hiding something from me. Something he doesn’t want me to know. “You have her, don’t you? I want to see her. I need to talk to her. I need to hear it from her own mouth.”

“You can’t see her. I’m sorry.”

“Why not? She knows everything already. You can stage a yacht explosion; you can make it happen. Where is she? She’s in this building, isn’t she? Is she on this floor - “

“Rufus, Angie Armiger is dead.”


	34. Chapter 34

Everything Mercedes was, and everything she could have been, cut short. Like an unfinished sentence. Like one of those brilliant ideas that flash into your mind while you’re brushing your teeth, and then half an hour later you’ve lost all trace of it…

Am I to blame? She brought me to Avalanche; she brought Avalanche into my life...

He says he shot Armiger himself. Do I believe him? If one of the others did the job, he might tell me _he_ did it in order to make himself the target of my…. Whatever this is I'm feeling.

A trail of blood follows my footsteps. Yet I’m untouchable. The heir to the throne must not be stained. Does it follow me _because_ I’m untouchable? If this is what I am -

Enough. Stop.

There won’t be any sleep for me tonight; I might as well accept it. Since my mind insists on ruminating, let’s sit up, turn the light back on, and think this thing through calmly and rationally. Indulging in mawkish regrets will only mire us in the past. Casting blame is futile. All that remains is to see whether anything useful can be salvaged from the ashes.

_In situations like these, it’s every man for himself_. Armiger’s words.

She has taught me a useful lesson, so there’s that. A man in my position ought never to trust anyone unreservedly. She presented herself as someone I could trust, an older woman with an honest face, who didn’t hide her shady past; who talked sense about money. She was a mother. I made assumptions. Two-Guns vouched for her tidiness, a throwaway comment in which I put too much faith. Going forward, I must remember there’s a difference between relying on someone and trusting them. No human being is one hundred per cent trustworthy. It would be unreasonable to expect otherwise. Everyone has their own agenda.

Except the Turks, of course. Because I am their agenda.

He says Armiger didn’t come to work for me of her own free will. Fuhito twisted her arm. Months before she and I met at Aunt Pansy’s farm, little Flourish Armiger, thirteen years old, sneaked out of her boarding school one night to attend an underground lecture on Planet Life. The popular clique were going and they dared her to come along. Veld’s daughter was at the meeting. Apparently she’s a compelling motivational speaker. She posed for a photo with the schoolgirls. And so, when I told Fuhito to send me a financial wizard, he targeted Armiger, because he had that photo, that leverage, in his pocket. He couldn’t send just any random accountant. He needed someone good, someone believable. She fit the bill. He went to Armiger and said, either you do a little job for me, or I show Shinra’s security forces this picture of your daughter consorting with known terrorists.

But here’s the rub. Nobody in Shinra knew what Elfé looked like. _I_ didn’t know what she looked like until I saw her at Corel. They had some blurry CCTV footage from Junon, that’s all. Fuhito was bluffing. But Armiger didn’t know that.

She would do anything to protect her daughter. She told me so, over and over again. She said I was a bad listener. She was right.

He says he doesn’t know exactly what day she first contacted the Legend. It was sometime last October. After Nibelheim. Surely, then, it must been the day I let slip the true nature of the contract between Fuhito and me. “You’re paying him to _kill your father_?” she said. She pulled on her cuahlskin coat and walked out, shutting the door behind her. She was furious with me. Disgusted with me. She had assumed I was funding Avalanche to _annoy_ my father. Striding along the street in her stiletto boots, buttoning her coat as she went, the sea wind tugging at her stiff beehive of hair - I didn’t go after her, I wasn’t there, yet I can picture the scene precisely. Armiger walking with purpose, her decision made. She must have gone straight from our office to the Legend’s office at the Shinra Building in Junon. When she came back, she looked as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

He says the Legend brokered a deal for her with Veld. _Mrs Angela Armiger is sitting across from me. She insists there’s something we need to know about the Vice-President. She won’t talk unless we guarantee her daughter’s safety. _Rather than shut down my investment company straight away, Veld decided she should carry on as normal so as not to tip off Fuhito. That must have been hard for her: continuing to work with me, being around me, pretending nothing had changed. She wasn’t a natural liar.

Tseng said, “She wanted to save you from yourself,” but that’s giving me too much importance. Her own child came first. She offered up Pia and Mercedes in a deal to protect Flourish. Just as Dad sacrificed Pia, and Mercedes, and his friends, and Armiger, to preserve me.

She helped them take down Avalanche. As a reward, Veld told her to stay right where she was and keep managing my business, since she was doing such a good job and the Vice-President seemed to trust her. He required reports on a regular basis. She must have hated me.

She rubbed my back and brought me water when Alex died. She was kind to me. That was real. I didn’t imagine it. _You poor boy._

_The important thing is to be honest_.

_There’s someone I can’t stop thinking about_. Thank god I never uttered his name. At least that’s still my secret.

It shouldn’t really matter who pulled the trigger. Dad gave the order to remove her. With Avalanche back, Veld on the run, and me in prison, she’d become surplus to requirements. A liability.

He says he did it himself to make sure it was done properly. He says she didn’t see it coming, didn’t feel a thing.

She had her brand of kindness. He has his.

Probably Dad blames her. He blames everybody but me. And himself, of course. What would he say if he knew how she used to defend him? How she tried to get me to see things from his point of view? Every parent wants their child to be happy. _Maybe your father isn’t as bad as you think, Vice-President._

Who am I kidding? He wouldn’t give a shit.

One day I’ll tell him. ‘Dad, guess who tried to talk me out of this?’ Right before I shoot him in the fucking face.

At least they didn’t touch Flourish. The poor kid knew nothing. They let her go back to school. She’s safe. Motherless, but safe. For now. I should try to do something for her. When I’m President, I could –

No. No. This is my world. This is my life. I know the rules. This is how I have to live. She doesn’t. I should leave the poor kid the fuck alone and stay as far away from her as possible –

My door’s opening. Tseng?

No. Rosalind. What is _she_ doing here?

“It’s three-thirty in the morning,” she says. “Can’t you sleep?”

She hasn’t been back in this room since the day she punched me in the head. I thought she was under strict orders to keep out.

“I’m on night duty.” She’s coming further in. “I was doing the rounds and I saw your light through the glass. I hoped maybe… “

She stops by the interrogation table. She says, “It’s all right. I’ve spoken to Tseng. He gave me permission.”

Tseng authorised this visit? She pulls out his chair and sits. Perches on the edge, shoulders back, hands clasped in her lap. “Vice-President, can we talk?”

She never used to call me _Vice-President_. I was always Rufus to her. “You want to talk to me?”

“Yes. Please. It’s important.”

I believe her. Rosalind is the backbone and conscience of this department, and I’m not going to insult her dignity by holding an important conversation while lying in bed in my pyjamas. “Let me get up - “

The cat protests. In the surprise of seeing Rosalind, I forgot he was curled up beside me. She hears his miaow and smiles. “You let him sleep on your bed?”

“I have no say in it.”

Should I sit with her at the interrogation table? No, my armchair is better. A certain distance between us is necessary. I’ll turn on the standard lamp so she can see my face clearly.

She begins. “I’ve been thinking for a long time about what I should say to you. I don’t suppose you remember the man I was going to marry?”

“Of course I remember him. Dr Philip Harper. One of Hojo’s genetic engineers.”

My instant recall has surprised and, I think, pleased her. Remembering names is a knack for which I deserve no credit, but I am also coming to believe it’s a duty. I can’t let myself forget who they were. You could call it a superstition. As long as I remember their names, I won’t turn into my father.

“Did you know that little cat brought Phil and I together? It wandered up to the labs one day and Phil carried it back down to us. That was our first meeting. The moment I set eyes on him I knew he was going to be someone important in my life. He felt it, too.”

She’s speaking slowly, pausing between each sentence. “Phil was a good man. People find it hard to believe a scientist can be a good person, but he was. That was something we had in common. People thinking the worst of us because of our chosen professions. They don’t understand. Phil and I… We understood each other. We both believed in Shinra. ‘Lighting the way to a better tomorrow.’ People make fun of those slogans, but we believed in it. That’s why we joined the company. We both wanted to play a part in creating a better world.

“The happiest day of my life was the day Phil asked me to marry him. The second happiest was the day Commander Veld told me my application to join the Turks had been accepted. I’ve always worn this suit with pride. I don’t think it’s naive or foolish to believe in Shinra, in the potential of an organisation like this. I’m not naive. Nobody keeps their innocence for long in this job. I’ve done things I wouldn’t want my little sister to know about. I did them because they were necessary. Until recently, I’ve never had trouble sleeping at night.”

It’s half past three in the morning and we are both wide awake. Should I tell her I know what she’s talking about? No, I should keep my mouth shut and listen.

“Of course I’ve had misgivings. Everybody experiences those from time to time. The Chief liked to say that we knew what the job entailed when we signed up for it. At one time that was true, but… This job isn’t what it used to be. I didn’t join Shinra in order to cover up atrocities like Nibelheim. I didn’t sign up to hunt down and kill my own chief and mentor, the man who’s been better than a father to me. I joined Shinra to protect the people I love. If I can’t do that….”

Is she pausing so I can speak? Does she want me to say something? I think she does. “You’re an exemplary Turk, Rosalind. Tseng relies on you.”

“I couldn’t save Phil. And you... Maybe it wasn’t my place, but I thought of you as a little brother. Someone I could instruct and watch over. I don’t have a very good relationship with my own sister. I tried to do better with you.

“I like to think I’m a strong woman. Losing Phil was hard enough. Find out _you_ were the one responsible… It broke my heart. It broke me.”

She is measuring her words with care. Rosalind doesn’t bare her soul lightly. She’s always been the sensible level-headed one, which is a burden in its own right, I imagine. I can’t even begin to imagine the struggle she must have gone through to achieve this degree of calm detachment.

“I know you didn’t target Phil deliberately. I am quite sure you regret his death. But if it hadn’t been Phil, it would have been someone else. You were willing to accept collateral damage, and that’s all he was to you. Can you think about that for a minute?”

I am thinking about it. Since they first put me in here, I’ve been thinking about it more and more. Phil Harper, Shinra biologist, hapless bystander, representing himself and all the others, their names unknown to me, who strayed into Avalanche’s path - my path - and were swept aside as if they were of no importance. I think about them all the time. But to mourn for someone as she does… To know your loved one died meaninglessly because they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time… I can’t pretend to know what that feels like.

“I am trying to forgive you,” she says, “But it’s very hard.”

She’s a better person than I am. I wouldn’t try to forgive me. If someone swept Tseng aside like a piece of old rubbish because he happened to be in their way, I wouldn’t rest until I’d hunted them down, eviscerated them, ripped their limbs from their body and trampled on their unmarked grave.

But my death is not what Rosalind wants. Her struggle to forgive me is not what she came here to talk about. There’s more. Listen.

“After Corel I was thinking seriously about leaving the service. I could see no other way out of this mess. You’re going to be President one day. How can a Turk serve a President she can’t forgive? How could you trust me, knowing what you did to me and how I feel? This is the dilemma I’ve been wrestling with.

“I didn’t want to bother Tseng with my problems. He has enough on his plate. I know how hard all of this has been for me, and it’s even harder for him. But he could see I was troubled. He made me sit down and talk it out. He’s helped me gain some perspective.

“So, here it is. The more I’ve tried to convince myself I should leave, the more I’ve realised I want to stay. Being a Turk isn’t what I do. It’s who I am. Phil didn’t overlook what I do in order to love me. He loved me as I am. I’ve lost him. I don’t want to lose myself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Of course I do. I didn’t want to lose myself either. But this isn’t about me, it’s about Rosalind. All she’s looking for is a simple “Yes.”

“This company has lost its way,” she says. “It’s been going astray for a while now. Tseng’s been ordered to lead us in a direction none of us want to go, least of all him. If we defy the President, we violate our oath. If we turn on the Chief, we violate ourselves. There’s no right way to turn.

“So many people have died. For what? So that you could replace your father. You’re going to replace him in any case, eventually. We expected so much more from you. The leadership you showed after Nibelheim filled us with optimism. But it was a false dawn. You’ve lost your way too.”

I need to stop her here. “Roz, I’m not going to lie to you. I haven’t changed my mind about my father. The old man needs to go. There’s no other way to get this company back on track.”

“You went about it the wrong way.”

I see she’s not disagreeing with me. Does Tseng know? Did he authorise this too? “I understand that now,” I say.

“Do you?”

“No one has more right than you do to call me to account. I deeply, deeply regret the pain I’ve caused you. I hope you can believe that.”

She nods. “I do believe it.”

“But I don’t know what it is you want from me.”

She’s pausing. Thinking. “Hope?” she suggests.

“What kind of hope?”

“Maybe not hope. Maybe it’s too soon for hope. Maybe all I want right now is to feel that Phil didn’t die for nothing. That you’ve learnt something -”

Oh god, where would I start?

“ - And you’ll be a better president because of it.”

“That’s my intention. But only time will tell.”

“Can you promise me nothing like this will ever happen again?”

I suppose I could. One can _say_ anything. If I were Dad, I would make her that promise. _She’s a company asset, son; tell her whatever she wants to hear._ Dad would say to her, ‘That brighter tomorrow we all dream of is no illusion. We’re getting there! Don’t lose heart now! Once we find the Promised Land humanity will be liberated from heartache, failure, and pointless death. Every life will be lived to the fullest. No more will we need to take dangerous risks; no more will we make mistakes. En_light_enment: that’s what you’re working for, my dear. A future flowing with the milk of human kindness and the honey of personal fulfillment. All you have to do is _believe._’

In that enlightened world, she wouldn’t be sitting awake here in the middle of the night talking to me. She’d be married to her Phil and they’d be raising their kids, and at three-thirty in the morning they’d all be tucked up in their beds sleeping the sweet sleep of the clear of conscience. In that world, ‘scientist’ wouldn’t be synonymous with ‘amoralist’. In that world, we wouldn’t need Turks. People wouldn’t need to be controlled by fear and false promises. They’d know how to control themselves. In that world, we wouldn’t need _me._ I’d be packing my bags right now, getting ready for uni along with Alex and Mercedes. And maybe I’d go to my first lecture and discover Tseng was my professor. It wouldn’t be a better world if he’s not in my life somehow. What would he teach? Something practical. Applied mechanics? Systems design? Something that lets him be authentic. Dad could fritter his life away on the golf course, a harmless old fogey, free from the fear that terrorists would blow him up the moment he relaxed his vigilance. Armiger would be the CEO of the planet’s biggest corporation. She’d be the one running the world. She’d keep it tidy.

But that enlightened world is not our world. Our world is a fucked-up mess. We’re drowning in a sea of fucked-up-ness. You swim or you die. People lay hands on me, grab hold of me, using me to stay afloat, clawing my ankles, dragging me down. We’re all fighting to survive. And now Rosalind’s looking at me like she’s expecting me to offer solutions. How am I meant to do that? What the fuck do I know? I’ve already done what I thought was my best, which turned out to be a monumental fucking shamefest of bad judgement and puerile selfishness. At least I’ve learned _that_ much, I suppose.

I thought I was making the right choices. So does everybody. Nobody deliberately sets out to screw up and make everyone hate him. Even my old man thinks he’s doing the right thing. Even fucking Fuhito thinks he’s justified. The difference between them and me is that I’m open to the possibility I might be wrong.

The danger here is that one swings too far the other way, from furious recklessness to fearful paralysis. If I’m afraid of making a mistake, I’ll never risk doing anything at all. The path of fearfulness leads to nothing but stagnation and decay.

Down the middle is the narrow way - no, let’s call it the tightrope - where I go forward trusting in my own judgement, while remaining aware that with every step I take I could miss my footing and fall. Failure _is_ always an option. Even the best can fall, and I don’t know yet if I am the best.. Or if not the best, at least better than my father – though admittedly that’_s_ setting the bar low. I hope I am; I intend to try, as far as it lies within me. But I’m only eighteen years old.

Fall and get up again, fall and get up again. I’ll probably keep falling down and getting back on the tightrope for as long as I have these Turks to catch me. I don’t see any other way.

“I can’t make you that promise, Roz.”

She looks disappointed, but not surprised.

I’d better explain. “I can’t promise you no innocent person will ever die again. That’s beyond my control. You and I both know that sometimes loss of life is unavoidable. Nor can I promise you we’ll never encounter unforeseen consequences. The most carefully-laid plans can turn sour overnight. That truth is coded into the very essence of our world, and I can’t change it.

“But here’s what I _can_ promise you. I will never take you - your department, the Turks - for granted again. I know what I owe you, and I will never forget it. Secondly, when I’m President, there will be no more cover-ups. This company will own its mistakes. I won’t pretend to be one thing while doing another. Whatever policies I pursue, whatever choices I make, I’ll carry them out openly, and if the world wants to know my reasons, I’ll give them. When I’m wrong, I’ll admit it. These are really the only things within my control. So that’s all I can offer you. Is it enough to convince you to stay?”

She’s giving my words her full consideration. Taking the time to think things through is a trait they all share. They’ll never make a commitment they don’t feel sure they can honour. It’s one of the qualities I admire most in them. I’d like to be the same.

“I’d already made up my mind to stay. Didn’t I make that clear? I couldn’t abandon Tseng in his hour of need.” She says this without irony, with genuine sincerity. That’s so like her. After all, it _is_ his hour of need.

“I’m relieved to hear it.”

“And you, Rufus. I can’t abandon you either.”

_I don’t deserve such loyalty – _I almost said that. Caught myself just in time. It’s not the right thing to say in this moment. Too negative. And more than a little insulting to her judgement. A poor return, in short, for what she’s offering me. I can do better.

“Roz, I promise you, I will do everything in my power to make sure you never regret your choice. I know it won’t be easy for me to regain your trust. I know it won’t happen overnight. I have a long way to go. But I’m willing to work as hard as I need to, and I’m grateful that you’re willing to help me.”

She nods solemnly. My words have won her approval, and I feel - I feel something tight loosening a little inside my chest.


	35. Epilogue: Three Years Later

Where did you go yesterday, Cat? Off chasing some literal tail of the feline persuasion? Hunting hedgehog pies in the ventilation ducts? You missed a good party. The Turks brought me a cake from Les Marroniers: victoria sponge with cream and fresh strawberries, my favourite. It was quite delicious. We toasted the day with champagne, and then Tseng let me go to their common room and spend a whole hour looking out of their panoramic window. The tinted glass is reflective, and we’re forty-eight floors up, but he made me wear a balaclava and dark glasses all the same. Someone might see in. “Who?” I laughed, because he was being ridiculous. “Someone with x-ray vision?”

“Someone with a telescopic lens,” he answered in all seriousness.

He would not be moved. I didn’t want to risk losing my great treat, so I yielded. Even though I know from reading the minutes of the board meetings that Reeve hasn’t got around to finishing Sector 6 yet, I was still surprised to see how little has changed in that direction. He’s had the time, and he’s getting the gil. Where’s it going? I swear, those cranes have not moved an inch since the day they shut me in here.

I’m twenty-one years and one day old today, Cat.

Dad came to see me yesterday. Happy birthday, son! He didn’t stay long. I asked him the same thing I always ask him: How much longer? We haven’t heard a squeak out of Fuhito in years. Elfé and Shears likewise. Most probably they’re all dead. When Dad first locked me up in here he told me it was for my own protection, but that excuse has worn so thin, it’s completely transparent. And you know what, Cat? I think he’s actually growing a little less hypocritical in his old age. For the first time ever, he didn’t make the usual noises - _please be patient, your safety is paramount, it’s for your own good_. Et cetera. He said, “You’ll get out when I’m ready to let you out.”

He gave me a present before he left. Diamond and gold cufflinks. That’s what you give your son for his twenty-first birthday when you have all the gil in the world but neither know nor care what he really wants.

I didn’t waste any of my precious hour looking down at his city. The sun was just beginning to set; it was the loveliest hour of the day. The golden shafts of sunlight, the burnt ochre of the badlands, the hazy purple of the distant hills, the pale blue sky shading through green to pink and the sun going down in a blaze of orange glory, the clouds glowing red like hot coals: I’d almost forgotten such colours existed in our world. If I close my eyes, I can see it still.

The sky darkened to indigo and the first stars came out. My time was up, so we came back in here and played poker. I broke even, more or less. Mink and Rude are _ruthless. _Mind you, they had to lend me the gil for my stakes in the first place, so what goes around comes around, I suppose. Our little handwritten poker debt ledger is becoming very complicated.

Would you like some of my chicken? I hope you don’t mind curry. Wait, let me wipe that chutney off first.

You see, Cat, the joke’s on Dad. He imagines my youth slowly turning to ashes here in my sunless cell on the floor between floors, but this room hasn’t felt like a prison to me for a long time now. It feels more like a second chance. The chance to reflect. The chance to study, which he stole from me when he took me out of school. Domino’s library isn’t quite as extensive as Penscombe’s, but so far it has sufficed. I’ve been reading some very interesting things about old religions recently. Real food for thought. An intellectual banquet.

I’ve been here for almost three years. A gift of time in which to think.

In many ways they treat me like one of their own. Does that mean they’ve forgiven me? To be honest with you, Cat, I’ve given that question a lot of thought, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not really meaningful. They don’t live in the past. They believe in moving on. The real question, I think, is whether the Rufus who committed those crimes is someone they’ll allow me to leave behind. For the most part, I think the answer is yes. I’m not sure about Reno. He’s fiercely protective of his comrades… And _that _is something I would never have known if I hadn’t spent all these years living hidden in the heart of their department.

Long, long ago I got so angry with Hughie once for saying Cissnei belonged to me. _It’s vulgar to talk of owning people_, I told him. True then, true now. I don’t own them. But I feel, in a way, that they own me. Or at least that they… define me. Will they let me be the Rufus I’ve become? I don’t need them to forgive me, Cat. I need them to look to the future and _believe_ in me. I don’t want them to forget what I did. I need them to remember what I did and to trust me anyway.

Oh yes, that’s my new chess set. Isn’t it magnificent? Tseng gave it to me yesterday. Does it smell fascinating? Can you read its history with your nose? It’s several centuries old, at least; handmade, white jade versus red jade, the board ebony and mother-of-pearl - No, no, no, you mustn’t bat the pieces. I don’t care how soft your paws are. Come here, you can sit on my shoulder. Now, look at this. See how fine the workmanship is? You can count every feather in the knight’s tail.

This chess set isn’t something you could pick up at Ronson’s when you pop out at the last minute to buy a person a birthday present. It’s the kind of thing you stumble across serendipitously, completely by accident, when you’re far from Midgar on a secret mission to some forgotten corner of the world, seeking vital information from a mysterious contact in a little country town you’ve never visited before; when you’re wandering cobbled streets that wind amongst tall, half-timbered houses, and all you have to go on is an address scribbled in pencil on the back of a cigarette packet, and your quest leads you away from the bustling marketplace and down a dark twisty alleyway, checking each door for the right number, when all of a sudden you find yourself standing in front of this tiny, cobwebbed, lamplit shop selling old chook brasses and antimacassars and potpourri jars, and your curiosity gets the better of you and you go inside, and the bell over the door jingles, and the inside of the shop smells of incense and antique leather books, and over there, in the corner, covered by a thick layer of dust, you see this exquisite thing, this chess set. And you know you have to have it. You buy it and take it home because you are a connoisseur of beautiful things. You’re not really a chess player. But you know someone who is, and after a certain amount of time has elapsed, one day you’re idly contemplating your beautiful chess set when you realise it was him all along you were thinking of when you bought it. And so you save it for an appropriate occasion.

That’s how I like to imagine he found it. Tseng laughed when I told him. He didn’t say I was wrong, though. 

He should be here soon. We have our routine, don’t we? Like an old married couple. An old married couple who skipped the conjugal relations part altogether and went straight to being seventy-five years old, shuffling around in our slippers and asking each other _dear, do you know where I left my glasses? _He brings me the papers every morning and always asks me if I’ve slept well. I always tell him I have.

When he gets here he’ll probably want to talk about the Board. He’ll definitely want to talk about Scarlet. Her influence over my old man has been growing recently and he doesn’t like it. He suspects her of planning to oust me from the line of succession. He doesn’t think I’m taking the problem seriously. My indifference frustrates him.

I know perfectly well what she’s up to. I read the minutes of the board meetings. Her maneuverings are about as subtle as a malboro’s fart. Heidegger is intimidated by her, Reeve loathes her, Uncle Roland is an irrelevance. Tseng wants me out of here and back at Dad’s right hand so I can put a stop to her shenanigans. I told him he should ask for, no, demand Veld’s old seat on the board. It’s outrageous he should even need to ask. She blocked his appointment, of course.

The thing is, Cat, as long as Dad’s in charge, having me back in the boardroom won’t change anything. I can’t stop him doing what he wants to do. The prospect of leaving this room only to go back to that other prison is not appealing. The mind games, the jockeying for position, the money-grubbing, the squabbling over trivialities…. I might as well stay here with you and preserve myself from contamination by association. But when I tell Tseng this in all honesty, he starts lecturing me on my duty.

I know what my duty is, Cat. I spent an hour yesterday looking at it.

It’s been almost three years. Dad’s had innumerable chances. Nothing has changed, least of all my position on the matter. I’m done with playing Vice-President. I need to be the one making the decisions. The old man has to go.

The hunt for Veld has yielded nil results, as any fool could have predicted. They don’t ever talk about it. It’s as if that so-called mission is some awkward faux pas that everybody’s far too polite to mention. Dad’s been patient… Or is it that he hasn’t noticed time passing? When you’re as old as he is, a year flies by in a minute. Sooner or later, though, he’s bound to wonder whether his Turks are even trying. He’s going to start putting on the pressure. Yanking the chain. What’s Tseng going to do then? Keep running in ever-tightening circles?

He’s often alone with Dad. They have confidential meetings. Dad trusts him. And I’ll say this, Cat: Dad is not wrong to trust him. And that’s a tragedy for all of us, because he could easily snap Dad’s neck before Dad knew what was happening. If he wants to see some changes, if he really wants to save Veld, it’s the only way. I’ll never get out of here otherwise. Dad could live for years and years and years yet if nobody intervenes.

Of course I can’t be the one to say this. He has to see it for himself.

If the suggestion came from me, his immediate knee-jerk response would be a _No_, and once he’d uttered that _No_ he’d feel honour-bound to uphold it, and nothing I could say, no matter how well-reasoned, would change his mind.

It has to come from him. He has to see for himself that removing Dad is the only solution. He must make the first move. He must suggest it to me.

And so I feign a lack of interest in Dad and his cock-eyed schemes for kicking over his own sandcastles, in Scarlet and her naked power grabs, in Heidegger and his ambitious generals, some of whom, according to Tseng, would quite like to mount a coup d’etat of their own. He’s exasperated by my utter indifference to the fate of this company, but he’s not exasperated enough yet; I must drive him to the limits of his patience, force him to look around and consider every possible remedy. And then, I hope, he will see, as I do, that there is only one viable solution. The answer to all our problems.

My door’s opening. Let’s put you down now, there’s a good cat.

“Good evening, Rufus.”

“Good evening, Tseng.”

“Are you waiting to play chess with me?”

He’s so ridiculously pleased that I like his gift. His pleasure in my pleasure makes me happier than the gift did. Aren’t we both ridiculous? It’s too bad he’s such a terrible chess player. And he doesn’t even care! He thinks he’s doing me a favour by offering to play with me. I’m happy to let him believe it.

He takes off his jacket and slings it casually over the back of the chair, the way people do when they’ve come home after a long day at work. He has _no idea_ how much this little gesture means to me. His holsters are dragon leather. Apparently they were a gift from Veld. Not that Tseng celebrates his own birthday. He can’t; he doesn’t know when his birthday is. We don’t even know exactly how old he is, and there’s something magical about that, to me. He’s famous for never taking those holsters off, though he must do sometimes, surely. When he’s working out, for instance. He can’t possibly sleep in them. He has to get naked sometimes. In the shower. And what about when…

“Before we start,” he says, “This came for you.”

A square envelope, clearly some sort of invitation. This is new. Hundreds of invitations must have come in for me over the last three years. He’s never delivered one before. 

“I think you’ll be pleased,” he says, passing me the letter-opener.

Intriguing. The envelope is sealed, so how does he know it contains good news? Let’s see -

“Allegra’s getting married?” Whatever I was expecting, it wasn’t this. “Does this mean she’s well again?”

He’s smiling at me, happy to be the bearer of glad tidings.

Well. Bloody hell. Knock me down with a feather. Allegra’s better. She’s getting married. She’s found a fellow brave enough to take her on. “Who’s this Captain Ingo Greatorex? That’s not a name I’m familiar with.”

“He’s an officer in the Alexander corps. His family have estates in the eastern grasslands. Your aunt might know his mother. Rufus, there’s more. Your friend Katharine Tredescant is going to be the maid-of-honour.”

“Kitty’s better _too_?”

“I understand she’ll be released from the clinic for the day. There’s talk of her starting university in September, so it seems she’s in recovery. Attending this wedding is a step in her treatment plan.”

“You’re well informed.” Of course he is!

“I made inquiries. I thought you’d want to know.”

Well. Well. Well. I’m grinning so hard my cheeks are hurting. I’m glad for them. I’m glad they’re getting their lives back. It feels… good. “All we need now is for Hughie to discover a functioning brain cell and we’ll have a hat trick. I wish I could go to the wedding.” I add a sigh for theatrical effect, which of course is wasted on him. “She obviously wants me to be there quite badly.” Which is nice to know, actually. My friends haven’t forgotten me. 

“We’ll make your regrets.”

“You had better come up with something good. Allegra’s one of my oldest friends. Her mother was my mother’s bridesmaid; I can’t brush her wedding off by pleading a business trip, it would be too feeble. People would talk. Is Dad going?”

“He’s been invited, of course.”

“Make him go. Get Skeeter to talk him into it. He’ll take Skeeter with him and then Skeeter can come back and tell me all about it.”

“June is four months away. Anything could happen. You could be out of here by then.”

“I’m not holding my breath. You heard Dad yesterday. Even if I can’t go, I would at least like to choose a decent gift for her. Where’s her wedding list? Probably at Les Marroniers; everyone uses Les Marroniers. Can you get me a copy?”

“I’ll have it for you tomorrow. Black or white, Rufus?”

He always asks. And I’m always white. King’s pawn to e4.

“The Edelgard opening?”

Ah, he recognised it. He’s learning. “If you know what it is, then you know what to do.”

“Perhaps I’ll try something different. See what happens.”

“If you wish to be deliberately contrary, go ahead. But I’d rather like this game to last for more than three minutes, please.”

He’s thinking about it. Leaning forward now, tugging on his right sleeve with his left hand to pull back the cuff so that it doesn’t brush against his king and queen, he picks up the pawn with his thumb and forefinger and places it, obligingly, on e5, mirroring my move. Textbook reply to the Edelgard opening. When he’s in his shirt sleeves it’s easier to make out the outlines of his body, fit and lean, spare and _pared_, pared down, nothing superfluous, nothing wasted, but with such an abundance of unselfconscious grace he can spare some even for so small a gesture as moving a chess piece two squares forward. Nobody taught him how to be so graceful. Nobody sent him to dance lessons. His body moves like that naturally. Despite all Veld’s attempts to beat it out of him, deep down he’s still my wild thing from the wild woods.

People in the olden days would have said he had too much concentrated cuahl essence. The book I’ve been reading says that back in those days, the church-building days, our distant ancestors believed that every living thing possessed a life force, a sort of animating energy that breathed life into what would otherwise have been a mere arrangement of chemical elements. I hadn’t realised the True Believer’s planet life doctrines have such deep roots. Our ancestors believed this animating energy, this essential spirit, cycled continuously between the planet and its organisms. Just as our bodies are physically made from the matter of this world, so we’re animated by the energy of this world. They believed that when something - let’s say a sparrow - dies, the energy it releases reconnects with the flow and is eventually recycled into two or ten or ten dozen new organisms that live their allotted span and then return to the earth, like cornstalks being ploughed back into the soil. 

I don’t know if I could bring myself to believe this - it’s too obviously a metaphor born from a more pastoral, agrarian time, and of course there’s no scientific proof - but it does have a certain poetic appeal.

If it were true, that would mean I’m made up of a little bit of all the things that have lived and died before me. I’m a little bit worm, a little bit chocobo, a little bit dolphin, a little bit cactuar…. And when I die and I’m recycled, all the living things that come after me will be a little bit Rufus. A charming thought. But what pleases me most of all is to imagine that once upon a time there was a tree - I picture a mighty oak - that died and gave its essence back to the planet, and some of that essence became Tseng, and some of it became me.

“Are you pondering your next move, Rufus?”

“You tell me what it should be.”

“King’s knight to f3 is the textbook reply, I believe.”

“You are correct.” I move the piece. “Your turn.” If I can steer him through three more moves without him doing something rash, I can bowl him a googly with my rook, and then this game might develop into something interesting.

In Wutai they believe in reincarnation. They say some of us are old souls and some of us are new. They say we start as animals and level up to human beings, but when I compare the goodness of animals with the malevolence and stupidity of people, I tend to think that perhaps it’s the other way around. And then I look at Tseng and I think maybe this theory explains a great deal. He’s only one life removed from the wild woods. The Wuteng believe our souls are bound to certain other souls that find one another through life after life, sometimes as friends, sometimes as lovers, sometimes as siblings or parent and child. Perhaps in another life he was my guard hound. Or I was his. Or –

He’s moving his queen’s knight to c6, just as he ought. “Now,” I say, “I attack your knight with my bishop.”

He shakes his head. “If your bishop takes my knight, he’ll be wide open to my pawn. And if your knight takes my pawn, my knight will take him. Are you going to castle next move?”

“I’m not supposed to tell you my strategy.”

“I think I’ll bring my queen into play.” He slides her diagonally to f6.

It might be a touch over-dramatic, but I can’t refrain from clutching my head. “Oh god, Tseng, no. Why? Take it back. Rook’s pawn to a6.”

“I’ll choose my own moves, thank you.” He sits back, arms folded, looking unjustifiably pleased with himself. Even his _hands_ look confident and self-satisfied. If only I could draw. Those strong clean lines of his - the way the sinew in his neck slants down from his jaw - his hairline, his eyebrows, the whorls of his ears - the shadow cast by his soft collar on the skin of his throat - they make me ache to capture him somehow.

I’ll never get tired of looking at him. If such a thing were possible it would have happened by now. Familiarity hasn’t bred contempt. Quite the opposite. I am the bowstring forever pulled taut but never released. I’m the discord that’s never allowed to resolve into harmony. They say you can get used to anything… . And if this is all I’ll ever have - always looking, never touching - then that will be enough. I will it so. It _will_ be so. 

“It’s your move, Rufus.”

“Tseng, do you believe in other worlds?”

“You mean - the solar system?”

The solar system! Pfft! “No, I mean _other _worlds. Parallel planes of existence. Alternative universes.”

He laughs. “Have you been reading science fiction?”

“Quantum physics.”

“You’ve finished with classical mythology already?”

“I am capable of reading more than one book at a time. Did you know that mathematically speaking, alternative universes aren’t impossible? There are many different theories. According to quantum physics, at the subatomic level nothing in the universe is certain, there are only degrees of probability. And each unique possibility corresponds to a unique universe. And because the universe is continually inflating - “

“Which universe?”

“All universes. The multi-verse. The number of potential universes is limitless.”

“How can the universe get bigger if it’s already infinite?”

“That’s a good question. I don’t have an answer. I’ve only just started the book. I think I’ll advance my queen’s pawn. There you go.”

He instantly moves his bishop to b4. “Check.”

Oh, dear. “Are you sure? If you want to change your mind, I’ll allow it.”

“I’ve made my choice.”

“Very well, then. It’s your funeral.” I move my pawn up to block his bishop’s line of attack. “Some philosophers have hypothesised that two new universes are formed every time a binary choice is made, one universe where the answer was yes and one universe where the answer was no. A cosmic logic tree. Universes are constantly splitting and re-splitting like… Like bacteria in a petrie dish. There’s a million billion universes where my mother didn’t marry my father and so I was never born. There’s a million billion other universes where my great-grandfather opened a bookshop instead of a weapons company. There’s a million billion different Tsengs and a million billion different Rufuses. We’re sitting here right now, you and I, Tseng and Rufus, playing chess, but what are _they _doing, our millions upon billions of parallel selves? What lives are they living? For all we know, our universe is the only one where Rufus and Tseng meet…”

What I want to say is, _can you imagine the odds? How lucky are we? _ But I don’t want to say it out loud if he doesn’t think it; and if he’s thinking it already, I don’t need to say it. God, I wish I could read his mind.

He’s looking skeptical. “According to your theory, how many universes must have split off from this one in the time we’ve known each other? When you think of all the choices we’ve made.” His bishop takes my pawn. “Not all of them the right ones.”

“Like your last move, you mean?” My knight’s pawn takes his bishop. “I suppose that’s the question, isn’t it? Can we call them right or wrong choices? Or were they simply the choices that brought us here? We don’t know what mistakes our parallel selves have gone on to make. We don’t know if those other lives would have been better. We tend to imagine they would be, but perhaps that’s a fallacy.”

He captures my pawn with his knight. It’s going to be checkmate in around a dozen moves, but he can’t see it and he doesn’t care anyway. Chess is just a game to him. He only plays to make me happy.

He sets the pawn on the table, leans back in his chair, and meets my eyes. He’s smiling. “If you really want to know what I believe,” he says, “I’ll tell you. There is no other life. There’s only this.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know where the story goes from here, and whether Rufus ever gets what he wants from Tseng, you can continue reading in my longfic "Death is Part of the Process", which you can find in its entirety at fanfiction dot net. I use the same name there. If you want to pick up at the point where this story ends, go straight to DIPOTP chapter 32, "Intervening Years One and Two" and scroll down to the second part. 
> 
> Rufus’s “Edelgard opening” is in fact the Ruy Lopez opening, which dates back to the middle ages and apparently was a favourite of both Kasparov and Fischer. Since they don't live in our world, their history does not contain Ruy Lopez, Kasarov, or Fishcer, so I renamed it "Edelgard" in homage to my other fandom, Fire Emblem: Three Houses. I thought it sounded like a good name for a classic chess move. I am no chess player, but thanks to the wonders of the Internet I can fake it. I learnt about chess openings at a website with the charming name “A Beginners Garden of Chess Openings” (https://dwheeler.com/chess-openings/) and was able to play through Tseng and Rufus’ game at “Opening Encyclopedia 2019” (https://en.chessbase.com/post/gm-tutorial-learn-to-play-the-ruy-lopez) , which allowed me to find the worst mistakes Tseng could make.
> 
> I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read this and wrote a comment, left kudos, or just enjoyed it. Stay well!!
> 
> PS The last chapter isn't a chapter per se, it's a cast list and some additional notes.


	36. Cast List and Notes if anyone needs them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is more than usually full of OCs. If, like me, you have trouble keeping large casts of OCs straight, you can use the cast list below. Just scroll down and it’s there. 

This fic aims to fills a major gap in my other longfic “Death Is Part of the Process” a novelisation of FFVII: Before Crisis. Some of the OCs and all of the Turks from this fic also feature in that other fic. I starting writing this fic as an attempt to answer the following question: exactly how \- and why \- did the world’s most closely-guarded and instantly-recognisable schoolboy not only manage to conspire with an underground terrorist organisation right under the watchful eyes of the Turks, but also funnel them vast wads of gil _without anybody noticing_? Personally, I couldn’t quite suspend my disbelief that far. For that reason, this fic is occasionally slightly AU. 

Unusually for me, this fic is mostly written in the first person. Rufus was determined to tell his own story in his own voice and in his own way. That seems pretty in-character, I think. 

Most of the action takes place in three locations: 

  1. **Penscombe**, Rufus’s centuries-old boarding school
  2. **Midgar**
  3. His **Aunt Pansy’s chocobo training stables** in the Grasslands. 

For easy reference, here’s a list of everyone who is either an OC or not a named character in any part of the Compilation. 

**_Shinra_**

**BC Turks**

**Aviva**: Knives

**Rosalind**: Gun

**Knox**: Katana

**Two-Guns/Cavour**: Two-Guns

**Skeeter**: Nunchuks

**Tys: **Rod

**Hunter: **Shotgun

**Mink**: Martial artist, female

**Charlie**: The Legendary Turk. Tseng always refers to him as Charlie; Rufus refers to him as The Legend. He works out of Shinra’s Junon branch office.

**Mozo**: Martial artist, male. Killed by Hojo at Nibelheim.

** OC Turks **

**Natalya**, chief recruiter

**Marr**, a young man of about Reno’s age

** Other Shinra Employees **

**Wendy Pretorius**, President Shinra’s executive PA

**Danica**, Rufus’s PA

**Kwame Gilgamesh** (deceased), the previous Director of Finance 

** Rufus’s family **

**Patricia Palmer** (deceased), his mother. Cousin of Director (Roland) Palmer.

**Pansy Palmer_, _**his aunt. Sister of Director Palmer and cousin of Rufus’s mother. She is unmarried and trains racing chocobos.

**Gus Lomo**: a distant cousin. He and Rufus have the same great-grandfather.

** _Penscombe School_ **

Penscombe has six houses: Fortitude, Attica, and Grey for boys; Woodruff, Minerva, and Queen’s Ribbon for girls. 

**Teachers **

**Dr Wiley,** Headmaster

**Dr Edgar Braska**, History teacher and senior master

**Ms Forbes**, Mathematics

**Ms Adeboyo**, English

**Mrs Vandermeer**, netball coach

(Hopefully it goes without saying that the school has more than five teachers!)

** Rufus’s school friends and their families **

**Mercedes Gandara**, the new girl (Minerva House)

**Pia Gandara,** her older sister, studies electrical engineering at Junon Polytechnic

June Gandara, their mother

Eddy Gandara, CEO of Gandara Electrical Industries, aka GEI.

**Alex Leigh**, Rufus’ best friend (Fortitude House)

His father is the CEO and COO of Leigh’s Sweets, a leading confectionery company.

**Johnny Casarini**, rugby player (Fortitude House)

Johnny’s father Mr Casarini is the Chairman of the Casarini Bank

**Allegra Fortescue**, friend of Rufus’ since infancy (Woodruff House)

Madeleine Fortescue, her older sister

Nigel and Camilla Fortescue, her parents. Camilla Fortescue was a bridesmaid at the wedding of President Shinra and Patricia Palmer. Landed gentry.

**Kitty Tredescant**, friend of Rufus’ from infancy (Woodruff House)

Her father Mr Tredescant made his fortune in iron and steel

**Hughie Babbington**, friend of Rufus’ from infancy (Fortitude House)

Caroline Babbington, his older sister

Dr Ottoline Hughes-Babbington, paediatric heart surgeon and Hughie’s mother

Sedgwick Babbington, art historian and Hughie’s mother. Landed gentry.

**Connie Hurda-Lainen_, _**friend of Rufus’ from infancy (Woodruff House)

Connie’s family made their fortune in protectives, then bought land. Her father is a general in the Shinra army. 

**Lola Capodimonti_, _**friend of Rufus’s from infancy (Woodruff House)

**Poppy Swinson**, a student two forms below Rufus (Woodruff House)

**Leelee Visser**, the diamond heiress (Minerva House)

**Cyrus Blaine_, _**rugby player (Attica House)

** _ Avalanche _ **

**Angela Armiger**, Rufus’s financial manager. Based in Junon.

**Flourish Armiger, **her teenage daughter

This fic is affectionately dedicated to all the Allegras and Kitties and Mercedes’s, all the Johnnies and Hughies and Alex’s, who have spent time in my classroom as part of their journey through life. They’ll never read this dedication and never know I wrote this story; nevertheless, I have thoroughly enjoyed being their Dr Braska. 


End file.
